You've Cat to be Kitten Me
by Ballerninja
Summary: Who needs monkeys in a barrel when you have kittens in a box? On his way home from a crime scene, Sherlock finds a box of abandoned, orphaned kittens... and who only takes one? Will this be an absolute cat-astrophe? Result in un-fur-tunate circumstances? Will there be more cat puns? If you read, you'll certainly find out. Rated T only because of crime scene descriptions.
1. How to Arrange Your Kittens

A/N: I have another Sherlock story for you... It probably takes place somewhere near the beginning of Sherlock and John's friendship, though I can't give you a precise time.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Except for maybe the idea? But I don't know if anyone else has thought of this, and I'm too lazy to look. Sherlock was a product of its creators, who got inspiration from the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a self-beta thing. So any mistakes are mine. Also, I'm American. So I apologize to the English that will have their brains bleed from my incorrectness and/or lack of "u"s... I can't control the English I'm taught, only the English I learn.

Also, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic. Not sure how long. At least two. If not three. Maybe more... just don't get your hopes up.

Alternate Chapter Title: _Who_ Dragged _What_ In?

I hope you enjoy the story!

* * *

It was a particularly vicious double murder. Definitely a crime of passion, according to Sherlock. The passion being directed to absolute fury. In his words, "Love is a vicious motivator." John didn't question him, though he did wish to ask how and when tall detective had come to this conclusion. Instead, he kept silent as Sherlock continued his deductions.

"Not the classic weapon of choice; the murderer used a knife, instead of the usual blunt object. Normally, for this type of motive, it would be more satisfying to repeatedly _whack_ the object of frustration. Or, in this case, the person."

"So the murderer preferred to butcher their victims." Detective Inspector Lestrade noted. The man already looked exhausted, though it could have been because of the late hour. His grey hair was sticking up in different directions from when he ran his hand over his head upon arriving at the scene.

"No, not butcher. That implies there was even the tiniest level of skill dealing with the bladed weapon." Sherlock corrected. "This was no professional. And it was a kitchen knife. Serrated edge." He leaned closer to the bloody mess that was one of the bodies. "Quite possibly a bread knife, actually."

"A bread knife?" John asked.

"First thing on hand." Sherlock explained. "He didn't even take the time to grab a good one out of the holder." He paused for a moment. "If you look in the kitchen, you'll probably find a fresh loaf. Made yesterday, but not covered due to the fact the baker was sliced into ribbons before she could." He vaguely gestured to the corpse.

Lestrade peaked through one of the doors to where John presumed was the kitchen. "Yeah, there's a loaf of bread in here. Actually, two."

"How did you know?" John asked.

Sherlock pointed. "It's quite obvious. She still has flour on her jeans, and some underneath the strap of her watch. The muscles of her wrist are toned due to a repeated twisting movement used for a select few things. Add that to the flour, and it matches up with the kneading of dough."

"So… she baked her own bread." Lestrade said. "How is that relevant?"

On came the long-winded explanation that John always tried to learn something from, even if he couldn't follow along with the lightning fast speech – as lightning fast was Sherlock's only speed when in what John had dubbed in his mind as "deduction-mode". This time he learned that serrated edged knives tear the skin unless used with a sawing motion and the knife kept sharp. (And even then, the cut was rarely smooth on anything. It just appeared so on bread due to its porous composition.) The murder weapon was neither, as Sherlock went on to expose. It was especially unpleasant when Sherlock decided to not only gesture to what he was speaking, but manipulate the torn tissue to get his point across. By the end, Lestrade looked rather green, and John was feeling similar. But Sherlock didn't notice, only leaving with a swirl of his Belstaff and without a single farewell.

Once John got outside – after removing the blue suit and shoe covers that the Medical-Examiner-that-wasn't-Anderson had insisted he wear – he looked around, and couldn't find Sherlock anywhere. It looked as if Sherlock had just left without him. Again. It hadn't happened in a while, and John had been beginning to hope that they were past that. Apparently not.

He sighed deeply in both annoyance and resignation before heading toward a road he knew would more easily get him a taxi.

Upon arriving back at 221B, John entered an empty flat. Completely empty. Well... empty of human life. It was still full of clutter, every available space stashed with paper that probably lost its importance some time ago, or knick-knacks that were beginning to accumulate between the two flatmates. John looked through the rest of his living space, and Sherlock's bedroom door was open enough that John could tell he wasn't in there. So where had the Consulting Detective vanished off to?

A part of John was worried, but he reasoned that Mycroft Holmes probably had a good eye on Sherlock. All of that stalking and security camera manipulation had to be good for something. Though why his voice of reason was pointing this fact out as positive, John would never know.

Just as he was trying to decide between staying up and waiting for Sherlock to return or going to bed, as it was late, his thoughts were interrupted by the front door opening and then closing. He heard someone mounting the steps, and looked out of the door to the flat to see Sherlock climbing up to the landing. Once the Consulting Detective reached it, he walked into the sitting room without a single hesitation in pushing past John to set down the box he was holding.

The cardboard container in his hands was absolutely filthy, covered in mud and smelling of something worse. John put a hand over his nose. "What _is_ that?"

"I thought it was quite obvious." Sherlock didn't look at him, instead grabbing the lid and pulling it off.

A sound then met John's ears. Tiny little squeals of something that made his heart instantly melt. But it also sounded distressed. Confused beyond any form of understanding, John just watched as Sherlock reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a tiny creature.

The poor thing was filthy. A tiny kitten, that was probably a midnight black when its fur wasn't clotted with dirt, sat in the palm of the detective's hand. "Hold this." Sherlock passed the animal to John, who took it carefully, very aware of its age; too young to be able to open its eyes yet.

"Sherlock, where—"

"And this one." The tall man passed John another tiny kitten, this one slightly larger, but of a dull, brown color. He then hefted three in his own long fingers and carried them away. Unsure of what else to do with the squirming fur in his hands, John followed.

Sherlock placed the kittens he was holding in the sink, then wordlessly took John's away and put them there as well. He moved the faucet to the side of the bowl and turned on the water. He adjusted the temperature to a comfortable heat and placed the plug over the drain, gently nudging the tiny kittens out of the way.

John just stared.

Sherlock removed his coat after reaching into the front pocket and taking out a small bottle of a clear liquid. John caught the label; gentle cat shampoo. The taller man removed his watch and rolled up his sleeves a little more than they already were before turning off the water. "Are you just going to stand there being useless?"

John blinked. "Did you…?"

"Get rid of the box. It's smells horrible." Sherlock ordered before the doctor could form a solid thought.

John couldn't find it in himself to disagree, especially when he went back into the room where the cardboard carriage was present. The stench was indeed terrible, and he practically held his breath as he went all of the way outside to throw it into a bin.

By the time he got back up the stairs, Sherlock had grabbed a bath towel and had it resting on the counter. "Ah, John. In my room there is a basket just next to the door. On your right. Empty the contents onto my bed and bring it here?"

This time it sounded more like a request, so John had no trouble obliging. Though the basket was full of a bunch of odd things; at least four of Lestrade's ID badges, a large handful of paper cranes (John had no idea Sherlock was interested in Origami), a golden wristwatch, and a few coins. As directed, John dumped the entire thing out onto Sherlock's perfectly made bed and returned to the kitchen with the empty woven wicker basket.

"Now what?" John asked, unsure of how to proceed.

"Put a pillow inside or something." Sherlock suggested, toweling off a kitten.

John took a moment to appreciate the adorable scene before walking out to the sitting room in an attempt to find a pillow that would suit the basket. Seeing none available, he grabbed a throw blanket from the pile next to the sofa and placed it in the bottom of the new kitten container.

As soon as John was back in the kitchen, Sherlock was in front of him, gently setting a clean, orange kitten inside of the basket still in his arms. John adjusted slightly for the tiny bit of extra weight before setting the basket down on a chair, as the table was still cluttered with the remains of whatever experiment Sherlock had been working on the previous day.

Sherlock was bent over the soft brown kitten John assumed he had been handed earlier, its fur spiky and wet. But Sherlock gently brushed and dabbed the towel on the kitten's poor, shaking body in an attempt to dry the creature. It was so precious, seeing Sherlock's laser focus. And when John was finally still enough to pay attention, he heard Sherlock whispering quietly. His deep baritone lifted into a comforting lilt, and there were a few clicks John assumed Sherlock made with his tongue. A few seconds later, Sherlock grabbed the kitten and placed it into the basket by the other.

He did this with each individual kitten. There were five. Two a soft, deep brown. One a bright orange. One completely black. And one that was a smoky grey.

"Where…" John trailed off, uncertain if he really wanted to ask. But then he nodded, deciding he should know. "Where did you get _kittens_?"

Sherlock looked up at John for the first time since returning to the flat, though it was through his dark, hanging curls as he was still bent over the basket. "You know how it is; the mother dies, the original owner can't take care of them, they get put in a box and left at a busy corner of some street." He said this with such a tiny twinge of bitterness that John wasn't sure whether or not he'd actually heard it, or just imagined it.

"So you, what, pick up the box and bring it home?" John asked.

"Precisely." Sherlock confirmed, grabbing the basket and taking it out in front of the fire place. The Consulting Detective then began to place logs haphazardly into their spot.

John stopped him. "Let me do it."

Sherlock looked offended. "I'm perfectly capable of—"

"They are _your_ kittens. Take care of them, and I'll get the fire started." John interrupted. And as Sherlock moved to do just that, John took a moment to fully comprehend what he had just said. All of the events in his life before that moment… all of them led up to him talking to Sherlock Holmes about making sure his kittens were sorted.

Shaking himself of the absolute bizarreness of the situation, John attempted to move on and do as promised; start a fire.

Sherlock had gone to the microwave, removed the jar of eyeballs, and replaced it with a heating pad John used for cramps in his shoulder; it still bothered the army doctor on stormy days. Once heated, Sherlock placed it underneath the first fold of the blanket inside of the basket. Then he thought of what to do next, briefly slipping into his memory for any form of reference.

And in consequence, he was absolutely horrified; there wasn't a single whisper of information on raising kittens in the entire expanses of his mind palace. He whipped out his mobile and did a quick search on the internet. He compared sources and looked at official websites as he scoured the web to find conclusive data and advice on how to raise orphaned kittens. The information it did give had him sighing deeply. This was going to be _so_ inconvenient.

But as Sherlock peeked into the wicker basket of five infant felines that were climbing over each other to snuggle against the warmth of the heating pad, his determination solidified.

He was going to raise kittens.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it! If not, then... no one is keeping you here.

Who do you want the kittens of 221B to interact with? Please let me know! I'll take it as inspiration at least.

Catch you later


	2. A Purr-zle to be Seen

A/N: HOLY FEDORA, thank you so much to everyone who has read this and decided to follow/favorite/review it! I'm not joking, I'm so incredibly happy!

I hope you enjoy the next installment of this story. We're not quite into it yet (this is still setting some stuff up) but don't worry, we'll get there really soon, I promise!

I'll be updating this as often as I possibly can, but I can't say for certain when that will be as I also have writing-intensive course and my other fanfic.

Review responses at the bottom!

DISCLAIMER: it's exactly the same as last chapter, so I won't bore you with a rewrite.

On to the story! I hope you enjoy

* * *

Lestrade took a deep breath as he always did before entering the threshold of 221B Baker Street. He'd spent the entire night before filling out paper work and figuring out the case Sherlock had dismissed as a two in his disappointment. A bread knife… why hadn't he just thought of a bread knife? At least he could think of it now for a future case if it were to come up again. But then, just after barely finishing, he'd gotten a call to another crime scene. As if he wasn't busy enough as it was; the workload this week was irregularly intense.

He shook his head to clear it and entered without further delay, tucking the case file underneath his elbow before taking the stairs with sagging feet. He nearly tripped over the top step as his toe caught on the edge. The adrenaline rushing through him at the accidental stumble woke him considerably.

He knocked on the door to the flat. "Sherlock? John?"

"Just a moment!" Called back a voice Lestrade recognized as John Watson. There was a shuffling of feet, the slamming of a door, and then a "Come in!" by the same voice. Hesitantly, Greg entered at the invitation.

John stood in the center of the room, both hands behind his back as he rocked on his heels. "Good morning, Detective Inspector."

"Greg." Lestrade corrected.

John smirked. "Good morning, Greg. Tea at all? I made a fresh pot earlier."

"No, thanks, I'm here to see Sherlock." Lestrade looked around. "Is he in?"

"Er…" John glanced away toward the kitchen. "I mean, yeah, but he's not available. At the moment."

Lestrade frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you see, he's… In his room." John said the words carefully, as if piecing together the information as he went.

Lestrade crossed his arms, retaking the file in his hand. "And will he be joining us?"

"Um…" John looked back down the hall. "Just… just wait here a moment."

The DI watched the army doctor walk away in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. He didn't even bother to knock before turning the knob and opening it slightly. There was whispering. Lestrade heard Sherlock's reply. John became more insistent, and as Lestrade listened harder, he picked up a few words.

"I don't care… He's in… and it looks… leave it be…" Lestrade made no sense of the order of John's words. Sherlock's reply was quieter, and then John replied back harshly. "What reputation?" A second to allow for a reply, and a heavy sigh from the army doctor. "You're ridiculous." This was said at regular volume before John pulled the door shut again, and turned back to Lestrade. "I'm sorry. He won't come out."

"Is he all right?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, of course. He's fine." John said, a bit of irritation evident in his voice. "Just a fragile ego." He made sure it was loud enough to be heard by the consulting detective.

The situation was definitely confusing to Greg, and he really wasn't sure he wanted to know why Sherlock was barricading himself into his room, so he lifted the file. "If I leave this here, could you get Sherlock to look at it?"

"Sure." John agreed.

Lestrade passed the papers and awkwardly headed for the door. "See you another time, then?"

"Yes, of course, certainly." John said readily. "Stop by any time."

"Great." was the last thing Greg said to the man before leaving 221B.

There had been some weird visits to Sherlock's many homes over the years. Some silent, some filled with the eardrum-splitting scratches of a violin, but none quite as odd as that.

Lestrade shook his head. What were those two up to?

* * *

"Are you going to at least look at it?" John asked. He didn't say that he was talking about the file Lestrade had dropped off, knowing that Sherlock would pick up on the subject matter without the added words.

"No."

"Why not?"

Sherlock didn't move from his position on his chair. "It's probably boring."

"Probably is not definitely." John mentioned.

"Probability says it will be boring, therefore it will most likely be so."

"Probably." John jibed.

The consulting detective opened his eyes to show John that he was rolling them. John smirked and moved to his own chair, consciously stepping around the basket sitting in between the two pieces of furniture they often occupied. "So why didn't you want Lestrade to know we're fostering kittens?"

"The answer to that is obvious, John." Sherlock said.

"Not really." The army doctor admitted. "I wouldn't have asked if it were."

Sherlock sighed deeply, sinking deeper into the leather of his chair. "As you've seen upon our arrival at crime scenes, I'm seen as a rather…" He seemed at a loss for words.

So John filled in the blank. "Cold-hearted and brilliant force of rudeness that crushes everyone's self-esteem?"

The consulting detective gave his flatmate, who was grinning, a dull stare to show he was not amused. "Eloquently put, John."

"Thank you." John accepted the probably-not-an-actual-compliment with a subtle tip of his head.

"But you've got the right idea. His saying that I've adopted kittens… it could ruin my ability to take charge at a crime scene, which is important in order for my view to be given credit." Sherlock told him.

John frowned. "So this isn't just a pride thing?"

"Making decisions based solely on pride is a ludicrous endeavor that would end up with disastrous results." Sherlock spouted. "It's never just a 'pride thing'." He quoted.

John nodded slowly. "So you're not going to look at the file?"

"No."

"I read it."

"So?" Sherlock snapped.

"Maybe you should look at it."

"Why?"

"Why not?" John asked instead of answering. In truth, he understood how Lestrade found the case puzzling, and was hoping Sherlock would help the other man.

They stared at each other, locked at an impasse, completely silent. This wasn't the first time John had practically had a staring contest with the Consulting Detective, and was still amused by the idea of it. A part of his mind wandered to the idea that Sherlock would have done this as a child. Just stare until his opponent collapsed under the pressure of impatience, or became victorious.

Sherlock stood, and moved to the file.

Victorious it is. John smirked as the detective open the folder and began skimming the pages inside.

Suddenly a loud alarm went off on both John and Sherlock's phones. The former jumped in surprise, the latter closed the file with a snap, turned off the alarm on his own phone, and went to the kitchen. John was still smiling, mostly at the fact he'd found something Sherlock was willing to ignore a case for.

It was time to feed the kittens.

The fact his life had turned to this was incredibly bizarre, and the former army doctor didn't want to reflect much on it at the moment. Instead his mind wandered to when he had offered to go to the pet store earlier that day to get some sort of food for the creatures. In response he had gotten a look of confusion from Sherlock. "I've already gone."

"You've already gone?" John was incredulous, knowing Sherlock's dislike for going to the shop.

"They need fed every four hours. I went last night after you went to bed. Also, I've set alarms on your phone for any of the feeding times that fall in what you perceive as _reasonable_ hours of the day." Sherlock explained.

This was why both of their phones made the same obnoxious beeping noise. John was thinking about going in and changing it, but wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to; it certainly got his attention.

Sherlock returned to the room a few minutes later with two bottles of formula. He tossed one to John, and the doctor took it without complaint, though he did hesitate. He'd never fed… anything. Let alone kittens.

Sherlock seemed oblivious to his difficulty, however, instead lifting the bright orange kitten from the basket, and curling his hand and arm around it. He started whispering to it, words John couldn't understand, they were spoken so softly. He'd done this before, obviously, though John wasn't entirely sure when a case would have called for it. Maybe this was not his first only because he'd gone through the process already throughout the night. Every four hours... that would have made this Sherlock's third time feeding the kittens.

John was drawn out of his calculations by a soft knock on the entry door frame; Mrs. Hudson was there. "Sherlock, I got what you asked from…" She trailed off, staring at the boys.

John stared back, suddenly aware of the fact he was holding a bottle of formula, and vaguely wondering if the landlady had said anything against animals in the flat that had slipped his mind. Sherlock stared as well, the kitten in his arms beginning to squirm to try and reach the bottle Sherlock had just put out of reach. John reached over and nudged the detective's arm, and Sherlock moved the bottle closer to end the infant's struggle.

That small movement pushed Mrs. Hudson into action. "Oh, they're darling!" She rushed to Sherlock, eyeing the orange animal in his palm, before catching sight of the basket. Her gleeful face melted into one of motherly affection as she bent over and lifted one herself. "Where on earth did you get them?" She snatched the bottle from John's hands and began to feed the kitten herself.

Neither of the flat's residents knew exactly what to say, so Sherlock stated the facts out of reflex. "I found a box of them on my way home from a crime scene yesterday."

"A box? Just left out on the street?" Mrs. Hudson seemed disgusted, and curled the kitten closer. "That's horrible. They could have starved to death!"

"Cold would have gotten them first."

John and Mrs. Hudson stared at Sherlock in their shock at the statement. Not because he said it – they'd grown used to Sherlock's blunt statement of facts that aren't necessarily appropriate – but because in his voice was a twinge of anger. A sliver of fury that was barely noticeable unless you were looking for it on his face, but it came out clear in his voice.

He looked up from the orange kitten in his arms to meet their stares. "Not good?"

"So you brought them here?" Mrs. Hudson wanted to know, redirecting the conversation.

"Obviously." Sherlock told her.

"Did you make a rule against having pets here, Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, wanting to get it out of the way. "Do we need to get rid of them?"

John didn't fail to notice how sharply Sherlock turned his head to look directly at him, but ignored it in favor of hearing their landlady.

"Well…" Mrs. Hudson gazed down at the warm grey animal in her arms. "I suppose they can stay. But keeping all five when they're grown is going to be too much. You'll have to get rid of a few."

"And how do you suggest we go about that?" John asked in his exasperation at the idea of needing to figure out homes for five different creatures.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. "Ask around. You know loads of people."

They watched as Mrs. Hudson redirected her attention back to the tiny kitten contently curled up in her thin arms and feeding from the bottle in her hand.

Sherlock looked back at the bright orange fluff in his own grasp upon feeling the front claws of the kitten on his hand as the creature kneaded it. The tiny paws stretched out into an almost-humanoid shape before curling back and dragging the needle-like claws into and across the skin of his hand.

"What are their names?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

John and Sherlock traded a look, and their landlady saw it.

"You've named them, haven't you?" Her voice sounded hopeful.

John cleared his throat. "Not really."

"We haven't." Sherlock put in.

"Why not?" She asked.

Again, the boys traded looks. "We… didn't really think about it." John admitted slowly.

"Oh…" Mrs. Hudson frowned at the basket. "Well, you should. They deserve to have names. And they better not be bad ones." That last comment was delivered with a minute glare on the older woman's part. She shifted her weight and passed her kitten to John, who took it uncertainly. "Your bags are by the door." Mrs. Hudson informed Sherlock as she pet the tiny kitten's head once and left without another word.

John and Sherlock were silent for a long moment, until Sherlock set his kitten in the basket and lifted another one. He looked mildly distraught. "We have to _name_ them?"

John couldn't help the amusement that brightened his expression.

* * *

A/N: I hope you liked it! This one was almost a filler, and more introduction to the actual story... but I had to set it up.

Thank you so much for the reviews! If any of you have suggestions for names, let me know, but just be aware that I already have the orange kitten's name planned out. That leaves two grey ones, a black one, and one brown.

Next chapter, we'll probably get kittens at crime scenes... probably. I haven't actually planned this story out, so it's going wherever the plot happens to lead. It's a surprise to all of us.

 **Review Responses:**

 **MerlynnHolmes:** I love your username! And thank you! I hope your family doesn't give you too much grief in the future if it does happen... And now I'm really excited to get Mycroft into this story. You sent my brain into overdrive at the possibilities. Thank you so much for your review!

 **meetmyoddlydrawnmemories:** OH MY SPRINKLES. Molly! Why didn't I think of that! I'll see what I can do about both. :)

 **Guest Review:** Thank you! And crime scenes are coming. We'll figure out whether or not they're allowed... I would tell you the answer, but that's spoilers. :)

 **Bkpeake (Guest):** Mrs. Hudson does indeed love them! I've also seen Sherlock as a cat person, as they're practically the only house pet that would be willing to allow him to focus on his work. And I can guarantee that Sherlock had absolutely nothing on bottle feeding. But, as you'll have seen in this chapter, he _is_ bottle feeding. Let's just say that there were many google searches and YouTube videos... not that he would ever willingly admit it.

Thank you so much for reviewing and reading!

Catch you later :)


	3. Paws the Game!

A/N: YOU. ALL OF YOU. HOLLY AND CAKE CRUMBS. Just... Wow. Okay. I am ridiculously honored. Not even joking here. I would still be writing this in all caps, but I know that won't read very well, so just know that I am legitimately THAT EXCITED. Thank you _so much_ to everyone who has favorite/followed me or this story! It's both amazing and humbling.

I will respond to reviews at the bottom!

the Disclaimer is identical to the first chapter still. I won't bore you with it this time. :)

I REALLY HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY.

* * *

John sighed deeply as he phone went off. At least it wasn't the alarm this time. The loud, blaring sound had grown annoying over a single night. He was at home again after a rather long shift at the clinic, the alarm going of every four hours without fail, and his phone had buzzed. Probably a text.

He pulled it from his pocket and, sure enough, it was a text alert. From Sherlock. John's flatmate was just down stairs, and still felt the need to text him instead of come up to John's room and talk.

He opened the message.

 **Lestrade has a case. Sounds interesting. You in?**

 **SH**

John frowned, and stood with a grunt before heading toward the stairs.

When he made it down to the main floor of their flat, Sherlock was throwing on his coat. "I texted you." Sherlock said.

"I saw that." John nodded.

"Great, then you're coming." Sherlock said, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

John sighed tiredly and reached for his own coat. He was walking to follow Sherlock out the door at the same time as slipping his arm into a sleeve when he ran directly into the taller man. "Ow—Sherlock!" John stepped backward and put a hand to his head.

The Consulting Detective whipped back around, looking at his phone. "It's six-thirteen."

John, now knowing his friend was talking of the time, nodded his head in acknowledgment. "And?"

"And the kittens will need fed at seven."

John frowned. "Will we be back by then?"

"No. Traffic speed and crime scene complication along with Anderson clearing out evidence already says we won't be back until around eight." Sherlock said quickly.

John was thoughtful. "Should I stay and feed them?"

"No, I need you." Sherlock's nonchalant wave accompanying that fact made John feel momentarily appreciated.

"Can we feed them early?" John wanted to know.

"It will throw off the schedule completely." Sherlock dismissed the idea instantly.

John couldn't see another solution beyond making the kittens wait, or they don't go to the crime scene. The first was a big no, and the second would be objected highly by Sherlock. "Well, then what do you suggest?"

Sherlock froze, and slowly looked past John to the basket in front of the fireplace.

* * *

"Sherlock, glad you could make it." Lestrade greeted when the Consulting Detective approached with his hands stuffed into his pockets to make them bulge out. Sherlock ignored the greeting, as usual, but John tipped his head to acknowledge the Detective Inspector.

"What's this one about, then?" John asked as Lestrade lifted the crime scene tape for them.

"We're not sure. Can't even tell the gender of the victim for certain right now. We're looking through missing persons for potential identities." Lestrade admitted.

John frowned as they approached the scene. Sure enough, the body of the victim was badly disfigure due to a massive amount of—

"Chemical burns." John mumbled as his thought finished out.

Sherlock stepped closer, and leaned over the body. "Based on what's left of the victim's clothes, I would venture toward female."

Lestrade frowned. The clothes were nothing but scraps.

Seeing both the Detective Inspector's and John's looks of confusion, he sighed deeply. "It's left over of expensive fabrics. Pieces of velvet actually melted into the skin around her neck because of the chemicals used to burn her. And on top of that, the skeletal structure looks female. Though I'll be more certain after the autopsy."

John stepped forward now, and Lestrade noted that the army doctor had his arms folded over his stomach, and his coat zipped up. In fact, Sherlock also had his coat buttoned. Sherlock never buttoned his coat. And what did Sherlock have slung over his shoulder? Was that a bag? Sherlock had never carried a bag for anything. His pockets had always been wide enough to carry anything the Consulting Detective needed.

Lestrade had been staring long enough that he'd missed over half of what John had said, tuning in just in time to hear the end of the army doctor's statement.

"—because the pelvis is wider. Well, _seems_ to look wider. Sort of hard to tell without a closer look." John admitted, though he made no move to look closer.

Lestrade blinked and looked at the body before looking back up at John Watson.

John glanced at the Detective Inspector to make sure he understood and found a look of complete confusion on the man's face. Assuming it was about his observation of the body — because he didn't know it was actually still about Sherlock's bag — he sighed, not unlike Sherlock did when he had needed to elaborate. "Women, unlike men, have the biological capacity to give birth. They need a wider pelvis." John emphasized. "I really didn't think I would need to explain that to you."

"Welcome to my world." Sherlock muttered.

Suddenly there was an incredibly loud and obnoxious noise that began to echo. No, not echo. It was two things going off at once.

Anderson cursed. "What _is_ that?"

"It's a phone. I figured with how much your brain has rotted, you would know perfectly well." Sherlock sneered, carefully removing his own from his pocket and switching off the alarm. John was having a more difficult time, determined, for some reason, to keep an arm on his stomach. Eventually, though, he got it turned off.

The area was entirely quiet, as the two men had drawn quite a bit of attention to themselves. Sherlock looked distinctly uncomfortable, squirming in an unusual way. John, turning slightly pink in his ears, cleared his throat. Most of the crew went back to their jobs, but kept giving them half of their attention.

John whispered something in Sherlock's direction. But because the Consulting Detective was so tall, and looking away, he didn't hear. So John hissed " _Sherlock_!" to get his attention.

Sherlock turned back toward his friend and leaned closer to hear.

Lestrade caught sight of something… odd peeking out over Sherlock's lifted collar of his coat. Something…

Fuzzy?

"Sherlock, what is _that_?" Lestrade asked.

The Consulting Detective's face held a mildly horrified expression as he reached up to the back of his neck. "It's a, uh…" He struggled for a moment, his lifted arm giving a weird twitch before stilling. Sherlock sighed deeply, seeming resigned. "John, he's stuck."

The army doctor frowned, and stood on his toes to look down Sherlock's collar. He then snorted trying to hold in his laughter. "Think the gig is up yet?" He asked.

Sherlock glared at his flatmate from underneath his bangs.

John chuckled at him. "Detective Inspector, we… we may need your help." He managed through his barely contained laughter.

"With what?" Lestrade was terrified.

"Let's move away from the crime scene." John suggested, already beginning to walk. "We don't want to contaminate it."

Sherlock, looking like a kid who'd been caught uninvited with his hand in a candy bowl, followed John with his hand still on the back of his neck. Lestrade cautiously followed until they were by the tape line, where there was actually a bench.

John sighed deeply. "You may want to sit down." He told Greg.

The Detective Inspector hesitated a long moment before sitting. John smiled reassuringly as he reach up into his coat from the under seam.

And removed an orange kitten.

Greg's eyes widened as complete confusion once again fixed itself on his face as if it was its home.

John laughed, and handed the poor thing to Greg, who held the cat gingerly.

He then removed another from his coat, this one brown, and handed it to Lestrade before reaching over to the back of Sherlock's neck and underneath the collar. The black fuzzy thing Lestrade had seen was, apparently, another kitten. Sherlock then removed two more – one from each large pocket on the front of his coat – to hold on his own.

Lestrade stared at them openly. "Sherlock… why on _planet earth_ do you have _kittens_?"

The Detective Inspector sounded near hysterics, and John couldn't restrain his amusement. "Well, Sherlock, are you going to tell him?"

"No."

"Didn't think so." John admitted.

"Don't tell me you plan on experimenting with them!" Lestrade asked, horror seeping into his voice.

Sherlock looked appalled. "Of course not! I'm not, contrary to popular and uneducated belief, a _complete_ monster."

"Just sort of one on occasion." John teased lightheartedly, receiving – instead of a glare, as he'd expected – a thoughtful pause from Sherlock before a nod of agreement.

Lestrade openly stared at them, glancing at the two kittens in his arms, as Sherlock set the bag down next to him on the bench and began pulling out bottles of what looked like already-prepared formula while balancing kittens in his own hands. Then he watched as the Consulting Detective and his doctor began to feed the kittens.

Sherlock Holmes. Feeding kittens. At a crime scene.

For some reason, as the initial shock faded, Lestrade couldn't find it in himself to be very surprised. Was it unexpected? Absolutely. But it's no more bizarre than anything else he'd seen Sherlock do.

So he sighed and shook his head, looking at the two crawling around in his lap. "What are their names?"

For some reason, John and Sherlock paused to trade a look.

Lestrade translated the meaning easy enough. "You haven't named them. Of course not. Are you planning on giving them away?"

"Mrs. Hudson said we have to." John said, not failing to notice how Sherlock clung tighter to both of the ones he held. He then reached over to pull a brown one from Sherlock's arms so it was easier to feed the other. "You interested?"

"Are you kidding?" Lestrade chuckled. "Me? With a cat? I'm more of a dog person, really."

"Do you know of anyone else?" John wanted to know.

Lestrade thought about it for a moment. "I'll have to ask around. But you should check with Molly Hooper." He said this last statement to Sherlock, giving him a pointed look. "A gift with no strings attached if she's interested."

Sherlock rolled his eyes while John frowned. "I'm missing something."

"Lestrade seems to think that I manipulate Ms. Hooper into helping me." Sherlock explained shamelessly. "I don't. It's not my fault she likes me."

"Yeah, and I'm holding baby cows." Lestrade said sarcastically.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow as he traded tiny creatures with John so that he was now holding a brown kitten. "They're called calves, Detective Inspector."

"If I'd said that I was holding calves, it could have been easily misinterpreted." Greg told him pointedly. "Stop acting smart."

"I _am_ smart." Sherlock replied.

"Smart enough to some how land yourself in a _purr_ -zle like no other." John said, adding emphasis to the change so that Sherlock understood it as a joke.

Sherlock smirked. "You've _cat_ me there, John."

"What are you two doing?" Lestrade asked slowly.

"Just talking, Lestrade. Making _cat_ -sual conversation." Sherlock said.

John let out a bark of laughter. "That was terrible."

"What can I say?" Sherlock asked. "It's not my area of ex- _purr_ -tise."

"What is going on here?" The shout of complete confusion cut off John mid-laughter.

The trio looked up — Lestrade and John holding two kittens each, while Sherlock bottle fed his own — to see none other than Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan.

The three men traded looks, and Sherlock cleared his throat to begin what John and Greg suspected to be an expertly put together, eloquent explanation of the current situation with quite a few insults mixed in. But instead all he said was as follows:

"Well... look what the cat dragged in."

* * *

A/N: I FINALLY GOT TO THE CAT PUNS. And I have so much more to use... hehehehehehehe

Thanks for reading! And, again, thank you so much for the favorites/follows/reviews. I'm very happy to receive them! If you guys have anywhere you want to see the kittens specifically, let me know. I'm already planning on a Molly interaction, and they will definitely meet Mycroft. Beyond that, though, I don't think it will go very far. It's looking to be a relatively short story at this point... We'll see!

 **Review Responses:**

 **thestarktruth:** Thank you _so_ much! I'll try!

 **Guest:** Ooooo... Serial killers. I can see it now. I'm glad you liked it, and thank you!

 **legolulu7:** I'm _really_ glad you're enjoying it! ... I hope you like cat puns.

 **meetmyoddlydrawnmemories:** Thank you very much!


	4. Un-fur-tunate Contradictions

A/N: OH MUFFINS AND PASTRIES. This story is being received so well. Thank you all so very much for every favorite, follow, and/or review! It's amazing. This is actually my most popular story, which is amusing to me, because kittens. You're all amazing.

I'll respond to reviews at the bottom!

Disclaimer: No beta, I'm from America, Sherlock isn't my show or characters, I need to thank Google for kitten info and friends for kitten names... I think that may cover it. Whatever I missed, you already know if you read the first Chapter. I'm too lazy to go look.

I hope you enjoy! We left off with Sally Donovan interrupting kitten feeding time, if you don't recall...

* * *

"Are those kittens?" Donovan felt the need to ask, given the circumstances, the obvious.

Sherlock shifted his feet, hesitating. " _Purr_ -haps."

John made a choking noise, dipping his head in hope of hiding his laughter.

Sherlock noticed, and smirked.

"Why?" Donovan asked, her dark eyes skeptical of whatever answer the Consulting Detective would give, along with John's reaction.

Sherlock opened his mouth. "Be- _claws_ I like them."

John coughed. Lestrade, Sherlock, and Donovan all looked over to find John cherry red.

"Are you _feline_ okay, John? Do you need a _purr_ -amedic?" Sherlock asked.

John lost it. He laughed out loud, practically doubling over but trying to be careful of the two infant cats in his hands. He could barely breathe. The entire situation was just so absolutely not what he'd ever expected to get into. Oh, this would make a _glorious_ blog post.

"I don't know what's gotten into you three, but you are at a crime scene. Sorry, Gov, but Anderson's starting clean up. Anything else the freak wants to see will have to be at the Yard." Donovan said all but the first part to Lestrade, cross between annoyed and apologetic.

"I understand, Sally. You can finish up. Just give me a minute." Greg said.

The Detective Sergeant nodded her head, cast a look once more between the two flatmates of Baker Street, and left to go back toward the scene of the murder.

"Thanks for coming out, Sherlock. You and John certainly helped. We can update who we're looking for to a female. We'll know more after the autopsy if you're still interested." Lestrade told the other two men, standing with his kittens in his hands. "Do you need help with anything else?"

"No." Sherlock answered simply.

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked.

" _Paws_ -itive." John said. It was subtle, as he didn't add much emphasis to the changed syllable. But Sherlock caught it, and exhaled sharply out of his nose and turned away to hide the massive grin that found its way onto his face.

The Detective Inspector shook his head, handed off the kittens to Sherlock, and walked toward where the body had been found. It was time for him to go back to work.

John and Sherlock watched him go before looking back to each other and beginning to laugh once more.

* * *

John sat on the floor, watching over the kittens as they crawled around free on the carpet. In his lap was a pad of lined paper, a pen twirling in his fingers. The page staring up at him was blank, which was unfortunate.

He reached over to the plate of hot chips sitting near his knee, holding the piece of food in his fingers as he mulled over his purpose. The doctor was trying to come up with a list of names for the five additions to the flat, even if they were temporary.

He frowned, and decided to start simple. He wrote out the colors of each kitten. **Orange** , **Black** , **Brown 1** , **Brown 2** , and **Grey**. Then he could put names next to the colors to remember which cat he selected each name for.

For a moment, he pondered the logic of naming them after planets or stars, just because Sherlock wouldn't know or understand the origin. John shook his head once more at the ridiculousness of his flatmate's priority of information.

There was a rustling noise, and John looked over to find the orange cat sticking its nose into his plate. He lifted the kitty and moved it to his opposite side before looking back at his list.

Maybe he could just let Sherlock name them? No, the Consulting Detective would probably name the poor creatures after serial killers or elements on the Periodic Table. That wouldn't do.

Another rustling, more determined this time. John looked over to find the orange cat neck-deep in his chips. He sighed deeply and moved the kitten. "You really like those, don't you?" He remarked, setting the little thing down several feet away, and moving his plate so it rested on his empty knee instead of on the ground.

John tapped the bottom of his pen to his lip. Maybe he could name one of the brown ones—

He threw his hand out in a desperate attempt to catch the plate before it fell off his knee, orange cat half on top of the dish. "Chips!" He cried out in reaction as most of them tumbled to the floor.

He stared at the bright orange cat's blue eyes as it looked up at him, not the least bit apologetic, but paying attention to him. John stared back into its large eyes (they had nearly opened by then) and something clicked.

"Chips." He whispered, with a tiny smile. Before taking the time to clean up his snack from the carpet, and sweeping up the crumbs, John took the time to write the single word under **Orange** on his list.

One down, four to go.

* * *

Sherlock sighed in annoyance upon seeing the straight knocker on the door of 221B. John was working, and he'd gone to buy food for the kittens. At least he'd remembered to put the basket in his room instead of leaving it out by the fireplace as he'd originally planned; John had mentioned the potential hazard if they managed to climb on top of each other and escape. And while Sherlock didn't see that as likely, he supposed that the threat was still present.

He entered the flat without further delay, knowing that his hesitation would provide his guest with amusement he didn't deserve, and walked into the sitting room without pause, offering the balding man a fake smile. "Hello, brother dear."

Mycroft didn't look amused, his three-piece suit (immaculate as ever) failing to hide his stern determination. If anything, it added emphasis to it.

Sherlock began to remove his coat. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" He asked, his voice indicating that it wasn't at all pleasurable.

Mycroft lifted his chin to look down his nose at his brother. "I'm here to talk about your odd spending habits as of late." He glanced pointedly at the bag Sherlock had set down upon his entrance.

The younger Holmes lifted an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Yes." Mycroft stated simply.

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a moment. "Well, I'm sure you can deduce the reason now that you've broken into my flat."

"Who said I broke in?" Mycroft asked. "Mrs. Hudson could have let me in."

"Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have let you in." Sherlock mentioned.

Mycroft tipped his head, conceding to the point. "She doesn't like me much."

"I can't imagine why." Sherlock mentioned facetiously.

Mycroft glared at him before leaning on his umbrella and looking vaguely around the room. "Where did you get them?"

"You have minions watching me through all of your cameras, and you're telling me you don't know?" Sherlock grinned smugly.

Mycroft's glare hardened. "I'm assuming this has to do with the box you carried here nearly a week ago? The purchases line up with that same time."

"Then I'm sure you already know." Sherlock mentioned. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted proof that the cat formula was actually for _cats_ and not some sort of mess of an experiment _I'll_ have to clean up later." Mycroft said honestly. "Where are they?"

Sherlock glared at his older brother before strutting out of the room abruptly, going to his bedroom and grabbing the basket. He was greeted by anxious mews and cries as they recognized him. He whispered to them for a moment. "We're going to go see a bad man and I want you to scratch his eyes out."

The Consulting Detective thought temporarily on the logic of that command, before moving silently back to the sitting room, basket in hand.

Mycroft leaned away as Sherlock practically shoved the container underneath his nose. The older Holmes observed the five baby kittens and saw them healthy. He slowly looked up at Sherlock's face, a question in his eyes.

Sherlock ignored the question, set the basket on the carpet, and lifted the orange kitten from it before shoving it into Mycroft's chest. "There you are. Isn't it adorable?" Sherlock said, feigning excitement, though his amusement was genuine when he saw the disgust on his brother's face.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft lifted the golden-furred creature in a single hand, the other still firmly on the handle of his umbrella. "Don't tell me you _named_ them."

When Sherlock saw the excessive displeasure in his brother's features, he grinned deviously. "I have, actually." He pointed to the kitten in Mycroft's hand. " _That_ is Fish."

Mycroft curled his top lip. "Fish?"

"It's golden, I named it Fish." Sherlock said with a smirk.

Mycroft saw the obvious jibe at their common term for regular people. Goldfish. "And what have you named… the rest of them?" He asked.

Sherlock, instead of admitting defeat, smiled wider. "I'm not telling you."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "This is childish."

"Well so are you." Sherlock told him.

"I'm not the one acting like a child." Mycroft mentioned, returning the kitten to its place in the basket. He momentarily observed the two brown kittens aggressively fighting and likened it to his many encounters with Sherlock before returning his attention to the topic at hand. "Don't get too attached."

"I'm not." Sherlock snapped.

"Good. You remember Redbeard." Mycroft said softly, carefully, concerned.

Sherlock's eyes turned cold. "I'm not a child, Mycroft."

The British government looked hard at him for a long moment before offering a plastic-fake smile. "Of course not. But now is when I must leave. Have a good evening, Brother Mine."

"Of course." Sherlock snapped at him as he left, refusing to turn and look over his shoulder to watch Mycroft leave. Only once he heard the door close firmly at the bottom of the steps did he go anywhere, and it was straight to the basket.

He reached his long hand down to stroke the kittens' soft fur in an attempt to calm himself, paying particular attention to the orange one as an apology. When it began to purr, he smiled, recalling what he'd read the previous night about cat purrs and their effect on the human brain. He also encountered quite a few articles on the healing effect of purrs. Though that also came with the information that cats purr when they're scared as well as happy. Their emotions are as hard to read as humans'.

But the orange cat rubbed the side of his face and body along the tips of Sherlock's fingers when he paused in thought, which led Sherlock to the conclusion that the kitten was actually happy. Which, in turn, made him strangely happy as well.

Ribbons of memories floated through his mind for a moment as his mind traveled back to that _name_. That name Mycroft always seemed to bring up as soon as he was growing attached to someone or something. It was probably supposed to remind him to keep everything at a distance. But ginger hair and an eye patch caused him to pause again and look at the orange kitten practically in his palm.

"You're _not_ Redbeard." Sherlock said softly, scratching the thing behind its ears. "No one's going to hurt you. Not any of you." He nodded his head as if agreeing with himself.

"I won't let them."

* * *

A/N: Aw... protective Sherlock. I just couldn't help myself. Start off with puns and end with a serious thing... it's my weakness all around.

Thank you all for reading, and I hope you liked it! I loved to read all of your reviews. It made me smile to know that you're enjoying this story with me. I'm still taking suggestions, by the way. And I will until the story is marked "completed".

Happy (late) Halloween!

 **Review Responses:** IF YOU HAD A GUEST REVIEW, A MESSAGE: I feel terrible for not being able to tell you apart due to a lack of unique name, so I will put the date of your review by month-day in parenthesis next to it. Sorry, but I hope this can clear it up a bit.

 **catmandew:** Okay, first off, your username fits the story. (Starts with cat... Couldn't help pointing that out). Also, Moriarty... you know what? I may have just the thing for you, though I may wait until the end to post it. Thanks to you, I played around with the idea. We'll see what happens.

 **TapTapAlways:** THANK YOU! I'm so glad you liked it. I started giggling uncontrollably after the idea first came to me.

 **A.J. Parker94:** *bows* Many thanks. I'm glad you're enjoying it!

 **legolulu7:** Thank you! And absolutely!

 **1Corinthians 1313:** I love that verse... also I'm really sad to hear that you've got so many tests and things... schooling of any kind is rough, but I'd bet one of Sherlock's kittens that you did really well! And I'm absolutely honored that you considered my update something to make your week. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside... much like cat puns. And, on that note, I really don't think there is such a thing as a "good" pun. Clever? Yes. Well timed? Of course. But not good. Puns are terrible in general... but I love them so much.

 **Guest Review (10-20):** I'M SO GLAD YOU LIKED THEM. Wonderfully terrible is an amazingly paradoxical compliment and I cherish it. You are so incredibly welcome, and I hope you enjoy what I have in store! Also, as for Moriarty... like I told **catmandew** , I think I may have a thing for you, but it will be near the end. And I found a way to make it less OOC. We'll have to see.

 **Guest Review (10-21):** I'm so glad you enjoyed it! I hope you liked this chapter as well. I _love_ to respond to reviews, mostly because I love when my reviews are responded to, so I've been in your boat. I also like you guys to know that I really do read them. Also, your ideas are fascinating, and I wonder if there's a way I could do that... catch a killer with cats... (Ah, alliteration...)

 **Treebrooke:** Thank you so much! I'm glad to hear it!

Thank you again to everyone! You're amazing!

Catch you later


	5. What's in a Name?

A/N: Due to the month being November, I have increased my amount of writing to... a lot. So, I will be posting a lot. But probably not here as often (I'm sorry). My project, however, is my Harry Potter fanfiction, _Switch the Patch_ , if you're interested. That one I'll be updating almost every other day. Nearly. Probably. Please don't take this the wrong way, however. I will _definitely_ be keeping this story as a priority. I just may not be able to update as frequently as I have been. It will probably be a steady once-a-week sort of thing...

Thank you so much for sticking with me, though, and reading this. It warms my heart to see so many people enjoying this. I want to thank each and every one of you for your favorites/follows/reviews. It's humbling, seriously.

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

A quick note before you read...There is only one orange kitten, and last chapter both John and Sherlock named an orange kitten. Does this lead to a problem?

Yes.

* * *

John smiled upon entering the flat, the sound of violin echoing through the entire building. It wasn't a piece he recognized, but Sherlock played it as skillfully as ever.

He took off his jacket and went over to his chair, where a basket of kittens was nestled by the foot of it. John lifted one out, randomly choosing, and happened across the grey one. It was very calm, unlike the brown kittens that were once again play-fighting. They seemed to do that every time they were awake enough.

John, shaking his head, sat in his chair and held the grey kitten on his lap. He pet the creature's silky fur and it purred, practically vibrating in his hand. Just as the violin piece was coming to an end, John remembered something.

"I've named one of the kittens." He said as Sherlock loosened the hair on his violin bow.

The Consulting Detective smirked. "So have I."

"Brilliant. Which one?" John was slightly skeptical about the name choice, but Sherlock should at least name one of them; he'd brought them home, after all. And this way, there were two with names instead of one.

"The orange one." Sherlock told him.

John frowned. "But I named the orange one."

Sherlock set the bow down and turned to face John completely. "We both can't name the same kitten."

"Well, what did you name him then?" John wanted to know. Because if Sherlock's name for the cat was cleverer and better than John's name for it (which was likely) then they could just pick Sherlock's.

"Fish." Sherlock said in answer.

The irony of naming a predator after its prey. John sighed. "I named him Chips."

"Well, why can't he be Fish _and_ Chips?" Sherlock asked.

John stared at him, wondering how Sherlock could have possibly set up that pun without knowing what John had named the orange cat in advance. Maybe he'd read the list of one name sitting on their table? Or maybe he didn't set it up at all, and it was just a coincidence? In-the-moment sort of opportunity? But the part that had John doubting the possibility of that was the genuine irritation on Sherlock's face. If he'd tried to make the joke purposefully, he would be grinning triumphantly at its success.

"You want to name a kitten… Fish and Chips?" John asked.

Sherlock, suddenly catching on to the unintentional joke he'd made, frowned. "No."

"Then what? Fishy Chipton? Make it a full name?" John teased lightly, a smile coming to his face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Name him whatever you want."

"Or maybe swap it. Chippy Fishton? Those both sound like rather regal names, don't you think?"

"Tea, John?" Sherlock asked, stomping toward the kitchen.

"Or maybe we could be absolutely crazy and call him something broader. Potato Ocean Creature." John knew there was no chance of Sherlock making him tea, but if the Consulting Detective did, John wouldn't be drinking it.

It would probably be poisoned.

* * *

John sat at the table up against the wall of the sitting room. The dining table was a mess, as always, so he opted to use that for business instead. And today he had to make a phone call. He looked at the slip of paper sitting in front of him, remembering when he called Greg to get the number written on it. Silently, he hoped it would go well as he dialed the numbers.

"Molly Hooper," she answered the phone.

John smiled, even though she couldn't see him. "Hello, Ms. Hooper. This is John Watson. We've met once before. I'm Sherlock's new flatmate?"

"Oh, yes, I remember." She said timidly. "Is everything okay? Does he need me to do something?"

John shook his head. "No, actually, I was wondering if you've ever thought about adopting a kitten."

There was a long pause over the line. "A… kitten?"

"Yes," John said. "Sherlock found a box of them on the side of the road and brought them home. Our landlady says we can't keep them all, so we're giving them away."

"Oh… how old are they?" She asked.

"Er… they stared opening their eyes these last two days, so Sherlock says around ten days." John admitted, knowing that it was a very young age to be giving kittens away. Maybe she would say no.

"Oh, that's lovely. How many do you have?" She asked.

Wondering if she was thinking about taking all of them, he answered honestly. "Five."

"How are you two handling them?" She asked, a bit of humor in her voice.

John's smile was genuine. "I haven't been doing a lot of the work, so that's always good to me. Sherlock's been the one doing most of it."

"I see…" She paused. "Well, what if I came over, um, tomorrow? I could look at them and pick one."

"You'll take one?" He asked, hope in his voice.

"Sure. What's your address?"

John gave Molly the address and thanked her before saying goodbye and hanging up. He was so glad she was willing to take one.

He walked over to the basket of kittens, and lowered himself to the floor next to them. They all crawled over each other to say hello.

John smiled at them. "One of you is going to get a new home."

All he got were tiny mews in reply, and he vaguely wondered if they could even understand what he was saying.

* * *

John didn't tell Sherlock. To be completely honest, it slipped his mind entirely until the day of the event, and the doorbell ringing. He heard it, and looked around at the massive mess that was their flat and sighed deeply.

"Well, you obviously know who's at the door, so I'm going to allow you the pleasure of answering it." Sherlock said from his position on the couch.

John shook his head, and decided to give him a bit of a warning as he walked away. "It's Molly."

He didn't see Sherlock's face, but it was momentarily confused, and then realization struck and he looked sadly at the basket sitting in front of the fire, along with the tiny black kitten settled on his chest. The little thing had been so good for his thinking it was miraculous. But John had invited someone over to take one away.

The voices of Molly Hooper and John Watson drifted up the stairs. He decided not to move.

"They're right in here." John told her, going through the door. "Pardon the mess; it's been a long week."

Molly said nothing in response, just offering him a sweet smile, and giving an awkward glance over at where Sherlock rested with a kitten nestled near the steepled hands under his chin.

John led her to the basket near the fire. "Here's the other four."

"Oh, they're _so_ precious." Molly reached in and lifted the grey one, cuddling it to her chest. It was just as John had observed before; very calm. "Do they have names yet?"

"Everyone asks that." Sherlock muttered.

John glared slightly at him. "Only the orange one, and we can't decide which name to give it."

She smirked. "Sounds like a problem. Would you like help?"

"Sure." John wanted it just so he could started giving people a straight answer when they asked the names.

"Well… this grey one…" She checked it over carefully. "Is female. You could name her Cinder, if you like it. Like ash. Because, you know, ash is grey sometimes."

John nodded. "I like that."

"Oh! And the black one could be Khoshekh." She said confidently.

John frowned at the odd name, but Sherlock let out a thoughtful hum.

"Hebrew for 'darkness', Russian for 'of the cats'." He smiled. "That's genius, Molly. We're naming the black one Khoshekh, John." Sherlock told him.

John looked at her, impressed by the deep meaning of the name choice. "Where did you come up with that?"

"Oh…" She blushed slightly from both Sherlock's compliment and quite possibly the origin of the name. "I heard it somewhere else. And you said you've named the orange one?" She changed the subject quickly.

"Yes. It's Chips." John said.

"Fish." Sherlock corrected.

"It's Fishy Chipton." John said with a grin, and sideways glance at the detective.

"It is _not_!" Sherlock bickered.

Molly giggled. "I see what you mean by not being able to decide. I'm not going to touch that, though. What does that leave?"

"The two brown ones." John said.

"Hm… well… I'm not sure." She frowned at the basket. "They seem to like to fight, don't they?"

"Yeah, always at each other's throats. But no one is ever injured." John said, then smiled. "Maybe we could name them after Sherlock and Mycroft."

"Not nearly as clever as you think it is." Sherlock ground out.

Molly laughed quietly with John. "Well, I think I'll have this one, if that's all right?" Molly asked, holding up the grey one in her arms.

"Do you need to take food with you or anything? I don't know what you have and what you don't." John admitted.

"Oh, I already have another two cats. They were rescues, too." She said. "All I'll probably need is to know when you fed her last."

"Two hours and eleven minutes before we feed them again." Sherlock told her.

Molly nodded. "That's enough time for me to get formula. Thank you so much, John, for calling me."

"Thank you, Molly, for taking Cinder off of our hands." He said with a smirk. "Is that what you're naming her?"

"Yes, I think so." Molly said slowly, removing her scarf from her neck and carefully swaddling the kitten.

After a pause, John nodded. "I'll show you out then."

"Goodbye, Sherlock." Molly said timidly, not waiting for a reply before leading the way out of the flat.

John followed her down the steps. "If you need anything else, just let me know."

"I will, John. Thank you." She said, snuggling the kitten close to protect her as she stepped out against the cold wind that had made itself home in London that day and was now racing down Baker Street.

And inside of 221B, Sherlock Holmes snuggled the newly-named Khoshekh closer, and sulked for the rest of the day. Though John had not the faintest idea why.

* * *

A/N: Did I just name the same kitten twice and create an argument/inside joke between Sherlock and John just to make a pun about fish and chips?

Yes. Yes I did.

Also, on the name "Khoshekh", did I just confirm Molly as a fan of _Welcome to Night Vale_ in my personal Headcanon for this story? Again, yes. If you like dark humor and satirical podcasts, I highly recommend looking this up if you haven't already. Joseph Fink is a genius. Also, I have yet to come up with names for the brown kittens, so if you have any ideas, let me know.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **1Corinthians 1313:** Oh, I wish I could see his face. I love helping out another in the quest to tell dad's dad jokes. It's so ironic. Especially when they shake their head and go "that is so terrible" and all we can do is laugh evilly... or it becomes a battle of wits with punny banter back and forth... It depends on the father, I suppose. But can I just say that I feel all fuzzy inside thinking of someone else liking my story to the point that you seem to. My goal is to have all of the kittens named within the next two chapters. We'll see what happens.

 **Guest Review (11-02):** Oh, thank you so much! That is such a compliment. As for the kittens leaving... yeah, I dread the day as well. And so does Sherlock, it seems. And about your idea with the experiment... I like it lots. Let's see what I come up with.

 **Bkpeake (Guest):** Thank you for reviewing! I'm really happy you've enjoyed the puns. I was cackling all the time. Also, the protectiveness is something I also adore, and I'm really happy that you like it. I agree with your statement.

Catch you later!


	6. Purr-amedic!

A/N: HI! Here's another. This chapter is dedicated to a Guest Reviewer that asked about kittens and experiments a few updates ago... This is probably not at all what you were thinking, but this is where my mind went. It's kind of sad... Sorry... But thank you for the inspiration.

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

Disclaimer: I'm American, and don't own any form of Sherlock. Or much else, actually. Oh, and no beta. So any and all mistakes are mine. Sorry about those... And I'm no expert on plants. Or tea. Or veterinary anything. I apologize ahead of time for any mistakes I have made.

I will contribute the context of this chapter to the gloomy day in which I wrote it. I was feeling a bit melancholy.

* * *

It was a few days later, John was at the clinic. His mobile phone was on silent, as it always was when he was working due to his flatmate's incurable habit of texting whenever he felt bored. Which was always, when he wasn't on a case. It was distracting to him and his patients when his mobile was constantly buzzing, so John kept it on silent.

He wished he hadn't.

On his lunch break, the doctor looked at his screen. Three missed calls, and twelve texts.

All from Sherlock.

Confused, John opened the texts and read them in order.

 **9:24 a.m.**

 **John, come home. – SH**

 **9:25 a.m.**

 **It's Khoshekh, I don't know what's wrong. Hurry up. – SH**

 **9:27 a.m.**

 **How can I find a vet? – SH**

 **9:34 a.m.**

 **I looked it up. Answer your phone – SH**

The next few that followed were similar, asking him to pick up, and John went incredibly still, wondering the result of this incident. It was four texts later when the messages differed.

 **9:43 a.m.**

 **Leaving in cab, to vet. Will send address. – SH**

Sherlock never sent the address. The detective forgetting that piece of information worried John even more.

 **10:25 a.m.**

 **Did you know cats are allergic to begonias? – SH**

 **10:27 a.m.**

 **Pick up – SH**

 **10:27 a.m.**

 **Please**

There wasn't even a signature on the last text. John hit the call button as quickly as his fingers could move and shoved the phone to his ear, hearing it ring. It didn't even take the whole tone.

"It's about time." Sherlock sounded tired.

"What's going on?" John asked.

"There was an issue at the flat. Khoshekh got into something he shouldn't have."

"You said something about begonias?" John wondered.

He could practically hear Sherlock's nod. "Cats are allergic to them. Even the _fimbristipula_ variety. We use it for tea."

" _We_ don't." John said. "Why did we have begonias in our flat?"

There was a long pause. Sherlock was quiet. Too quiet. John silently worried. "Sherlock, text me the address of the vet, and I'll be over shortly."

"Really?" Sherlock sounded both doubtful and hopeful.

"Really." John responded.

"Done." Then the call was disconnected from Sherlock's end. He'd never been one to acknowledge greetings or farewells unless it was necessity. John had gotten used to it rather quickly.

Not very much later, his mobile vibrated once more, and he saw the address. He was on his way shortly after telling someone as he rushed out the door – he wasn't really paying that close of attention, but she was sitting behind a desk – that he needed to take the rest of the day off due to a family emergency.

* * *

Sherlock was in the waiting area, surprisingly at ease with all of the people around him, and staring absentmindedly at a dog.

John approached him and sat on his right side. "How is he?"

"Khoshekh?" Sherlock checked. At John's nod, he blinked his eyes back into focus. "They're doing… something. I guess he'll be fine, but the thing they're doing is supposed to help."

The incredibly vague explanation left John baffled. The Consulting Detective seemed off. Unfocused.

"Are you all right?" John asked.

"Hm?" Sherlock looked at him. "Oh, er… yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" He asked.

John hesitated. "What happened to Khoshekh?"

Now the taller man hesitated, looking away almost shamefully. "Lestrade came to me and asked for help with a case. Only a three. But I told him I would give him the murder weapon. I just needed her tea."

"Her tea?" John asked.

"The victim's. She made hers with begonias. _Begonia fimbristipula_ specifically. I suspected a poison laced in the leaves, so I asked Lestrade for them so I could find out."

John's eyes widened. "The cat ate poisoned tea leaves?"

Sherlock looked offended. "You think I would leave _poisoned_ leaves just lying around? It's crime scene evidence! Honestly, John…" He shook his head. "No, I needed a control group, so I got some from Mrs. Hudson's cupboard. She never drinks it. A gift from her sister."

"And that's what Khoshekh got into?" John asked.

Sherlock hung his head, his dark curls falling over his eyes so John couldn't see them. He'd never seen this sort of mannerism from the detective. The entire encounter seemed so… out of character.

"I knocked some onto the ground, walked away for two seconds to get something to clean it up, and I come back with Khoshekh sniffing at it." He still didn't make eye contact. "I thought it was fine, until I was holding him, and he was salivating, and licking his lips. And shortly after I set him down he started making this terrible noise and then vomited on the carpet. That was when I texted you first."

John stared at his friend, not saying a word.

"It was the first time in a long time that I truly didn't know… anything. I didn't know what was going on, and I didn't know what to do." Sherlock admitted quietly, keeping his eyes locked firmly on his hands where they were in his lap.

John pursed his lips in thought, and looked away for a moment. Because when Sherlock had been confused and in an unknown situation, he'd called John. Out of everyone on his list of contacts, he'd called John Watson.

"I'm sorry I didn't answer." John said finally.

Sherlock shook his head. "You had it on silent, didn't you? There's no way you would have known."

That was awfully considerate of him. John decided not to dwell on it too much.

"How about the other kittens?" John wanted to know.

"I put them in my room and closed the door."

John looked wary of that plan, and Sherlock scoffed. "Honestly, do you really think I would put any sort of poisonous or dangerous substance in a place where I sleep?"

"I don't know what you would put in your bedroom, Sherlock, but I wouldn't put it past you to have something of that sort in the immediate vicinity of where you sleep." John admitted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm barely ever in there. What would the purpose be?"

"Khoshekh?" The name was pronounced slowly from across the room, as if uncertain. John didn't blame the poor man; it was so oddly spelled.

Sherlock stood abruptly at the sound of the cat's name. John followed and they both walked over to the man with the clip board, who was smiling kindly at them. "Khoshekh will be fine." He told them. "He's just going to be tired for a while, but we would like to keep him overnight to observe him and make sure."

John, as a doctor, completely understood the purpose of the overnight stay. And while it wasn't that difficult of a topic to understand, Sherlock bristled. "Must he stay?"

"It's in his best interest." The man said with a nod of his head. "But don't worry, he'll be in great hands. We have a twenty-four hour monitoring of the animals that are here, and the doctors are always on call. So if there are any problems through the night, we will be able to handle them."

"Where will he sleep?" Sherlock asked.

The man, John read his tag to find the name Kyle, looked as if he'd been asked this before. "Khoshekh will get his very own crate, separate from all of the other animals, and he will be fed as soon as he is able and as often as he is supposed to. We're very aware of his age, and we will care for him."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes skeptically at the man, scraping him to his skeleton with his gaze. "See that you do."

"All right, Sherlock, that's enough." John said softly, and then spoke to Kyle. "Thank you very much. Is there any sort of paperwork I need to fill out?"

* * *

Sherlock was quiet for the rest of their time away from the flat. The only words he spoke were when the veterinarian allowed them to visit with Khoshekh. Sherlock whispered something to the poor animal, and had said nothing since.

When they entered 221B, Sherlock went straight to the kitchen and grabbed the broom from where it rested against the counter, using it to sweep the tiled floor with an efficiency the man seemed to use for everything.

Once he was finished, he went to his bedroom door. From inside, you could hear a chorus of off-key cries of kittens. John couldn't help but smile slightly at the noise, and at Sherlock's instinct to lift one from the ground after opening the door and releasing the animals from inside.

Sherlock held one of the still-unnamed brown ones close to his heart, bowing his head to nearly touch his nose to its soft fur. His long fingers scratched behind the ears of the creature, and under its chin, releasing a delighted purr from it.

John watched as Sherlock drug his feet as he went to the sofa, sitting carefully so as to keep the kitten happy, and set the creature down in his lap.

Neither of them said anything.

John reached down to his ankle, where Chips – or Fish – was rubbing his face against him and lifted the kitten, watching in amusement as the animal's legs stretched out, the tiny toes spreading apart. It was adorable, really.

Once both John and Sherlock had a kitten in their lap, with the last brown one lying on the floor in between them on its own, John took a breath. "He'll be fine."

"You don't know that." Sherlock snapped nearly before John had even finished his sentence, not looking up from the kitten still curled on his lap.

John hesitated at the abrupt reply. "The vet said so."

"Yes, well, the vet is probably an idiot. Just like so many other people." The bitterness in his voice was so potent that the cat under his hand pulled its head up and away from his fingers to stare at Sherlock's face.

"But the vet knows about kittens. I'm assuming it wasn't you that figured out that cats are allergic to begonias?" John asked.

Sherlock hesitated. "No. The vet told me."

"Then they must know what they're doing." John said, trying to reassure him.

"Or he came to a conclusion that wasn't wrong by accident." Sherlock muttered.

John lifted an eyebrow. "You're awfully sure that the vet _doesn't_ know what he is doing."

"Because he probably doesn't." Sherlock snapped.

"Then why did you leave Khoshekh with them?"

The question threw Sherlock into silence. He swallowed, and looked away before responding. "Because he knows more than me."

John realized rather suddenly that this admission must have been hard for someone as genius as Sherlock. In fact, it was probably incredibly difficult. He sighed. "Then I guess… we'll wait and see."

The detective sounded exhausted as he responded. "We don't really have another choice, John."

* * *

A/N: Does this count as a cliff hanger? I don't like cliff hangers (while reading, but they're pretty fun to write). I guess it could be judged differently from person to person.

Thank you so much for reading! And for every favorite/follow/review! I'm honored, truly.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **jocelyn. :** XD Chocolate Cookies and Fish and Chips... you've developed a trend, and I am amused. I'm glad to amuse you as well. Thank you for your review!

 **TapTapAlways:** I agree that Sherlock has taken a special liking to Khoshekh, and John to the orange one of many (many) names. And don't give away my plot secrets! That was actually my plan, originally... though to whom is still in question. It's great to see your name again! Thanks for the review.

 **Guest Review (11-11):** Oh my goodness, that sounds like a load. I myself am very disorganized, and still in school, so I understand and wish to thank you so much for finding the time to review! I thought that Cinder's difference in attitude is exactly what made that kitten perfect for Molly. I'm glad you've liked it so far! And I'm actually doing pretty well, considering the time. I hope you're doing well, also!

Catch you later


	7. A Kitten's Voice

A/N: Woohoo! New chapter! And holy guacamole, you guys. I'm so happy. Thank you so much for every single favorite, follow, or review. It means a lot, really. But also thank you if you just read this story, and enjoy it, without doing anything else. You just reading it makes me happy.

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

The disclaimer is the same as it has always been.

This chapter is shorter than the others, but I wanted to get it out as soon as possible.

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

John Watson was very happy he'd given the vet clinic his mobile number and not Sherlock's. The person who called to tell him that he could come and take Khoshekh home wasn't very kind. She'd probably already had a long day of dealing with other customers, so he couldn't really blame her.

What happened when he returned to 221B Baker Street made the phone call worth it, though.

He entered the flat with a small bundle of a blanket in his arms. "Sherlock?"

The detective didn't stir from his position on the couch, stretched out flat with his eyes closed and palms placed together. Often John wondered if he'd simply fallen asleep. Logically speaking, if he stayed completely still for such a long span of time, his body would have fallen into sleep. But everything was different for everyone.

Slightly annoyed that Sherlock hadn't even grunted to acknowledge John's presence, and curious about the man's reaction, John set the bundle down carefully on Sherlock's abdomen.

The kitten inside of the blanket began to purr loudly, and Sherlock opened his eyes immediately. He looked down at the creature curled on top of him and a smile of the purest joy John had ever seen spread across the Consulting Detective's features. With a shaking hand, Sherlock reached to pet the kitten gently. It kicked out and stretched its tiny little legs, opening its paws wide in satisfaction.

John watched for a moment, smiling softly at the genuine happiness on Sherlock's face that was coated in a relief John had never seen before.

Rather quickly, he found one of the un-named brown kittens kneading at the side of the sofa in an attempt to show it wanted to see its brother as well. It mewed and mewed until john lifted it and set it up next to Khoshekh. Quickly, the other two cats came as well, hearing their sibling's cry of what John could only assume was delight.

John lifted them up onto the couch until Sherlock was holding all four kittens on top of him. The Consulting Detective didn't even notice them, however, seeming to have a laser focus on Khoshekh.

He smirked. "I'll give you a moment."

Sherlock waited for John to leave a room, and for the sounds to start in the kitchen that indicated tea making, before saying anything.

He massaged the kitten's head delicately, just above and behind his ears. "You scared me, you know." He spoke quietly.

The kitten began to purr louder, as either Sherlock found a spot that the kitten really like scratched or a response to his spoken words.

Sherlock sighed. "Nearly as much as John does sometimes."

Fish – or Chips – suddenly slid off of Sherlock and the detective reflexively caught the kitten before it hit the ground. Though, technically speaking, the animal would have been just fine landing on his own.

The quick movement had caused all of the other kittens to stop what they were doing in shock at the fact that their temporary floor made a sudden movement. Sherlock placed Fish – Chips… whatever – back on top of him before giving an apologetic look to the rest.

He then returned his attention to Khoshekh. "What were you thinking, getting into something like that? It would have been bitter when you consumed it. You wouldn't have liked it. So why did you put it in your mouth?" He asked.

The cat seemed to do the thing his skull on the mantel did on occasion. Khoshekh looked straight at him, as if looks alone could say something. And Sherlock heard his knowledge reflected. _What do infant creatures do when they can't figure out what something is by mere touch?_

"They mouth it." He spoke slowly. "You were trying to figure out what it was, because it was new and you'd never experienced it before."

 _Exactly_. Khoshekh seemed to say, resting his head back down. _You're brilliant sometimes._

He frowned. "Sometimes?"

 _Everyone has their moments of stupidity. Yours are just rarer._

Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked imagining the voice of something with a pre-established personality. "We haven't even known each other for very long."

 _But you've already grown attached. Already care lots._ Said the odd reflection of his thoughts that seemed... childlike, to an extent. Normally when he used the skull, he heard his own voice reflected. That was why he told John that he bounced his ideas off of the cadaver. But this was different. Khoshekh had a moving face. Had a personality already in existence. Sherlock's mind had simply added words to evaluate.

He looked at the kittens on top of him, pulled the brown kittens apart from each other before they could keep fighting, and sighed deeply. "You're right."

"Sherlock, who are you talking to?" John asked, reappearing in the doorway.

The Consulting Detective hesitated. But John had already accepted all of his many other quirks. So he spoke honestly. "Khoshekh."

The doctor seemed to contemplate this for a moment before disappearing and continuing to prepare the tea. Sherlock momentarily wondered what was running through John Watson's mind.

John was, of course, disappearing to allow himself the chance to smile at the actions of his flatmate. Talking to his pets. He shook his head, but decided that teasing Sherlock was out of the question. John talked to them, too.

To clarify with the audience, there was a key difference between John's talking to the kittens and Sherlock. For John, they never seemed to talk back.

* * *

"What about… Chocolate?"

"Don't be absurd, John. That's a stupid name."

 _He_ certainly hadn't thought so. "Well, then what would you suggest?"

"Er… Henry? Or Donald."

"What? Why?"

"After Donald Henry Gaskins."

John hesitated. "The Hitchhikers' Killer?"

"Why not?"

"Sherlock, you'd be naming a kitten after a serial killer. How do you not see what's wrong with that?"

"And you think that's worse than naming them after food?"

"Yes." John exclaimed. "Yes, it is so much worse."

Sherlock scoffed. "How about… Jack?"

"No."

"Why not? Jack is a perfectly reasonable name."

"It's also after Jack the Ripper, isn't it?"

Now Sherlock hesitated. "Perhaps."

John sighed. "How do you feel about Cookies?"

"That's a food, John."

"It was a name someone from work recommended." John said tiredly.

"We're not naming them after food."

"You named Fishy Chipton after food."

"I did _not_ name Fish after a food." Sherlock told him. "He's golden. I was thinking of goldfish."

John hesitated. "Right."

There was a small stretch of silence, when John suddenly had an idea. He abruptly left his chair to grab his laptop. He opened it and began to do some research. Shortly thereafter, he turned to his flatmate. "Orion?"

Sherlock looked up from where Khoshekh was resting in his lap. "The Hunter?"

"Why not? There's an adequate level of violence for you, right?"

Sherlock frowned skeptically. "What's in it for you?"

John shrugged mutely, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes in response. "I don't see a problem with it."

"Then we'll name the darker one Orion." John pointed to one of the brown kittens, its faded stripes slightly duller than the other's.

"All right." Sherlock said, still sounding skeptical.

John smiled and looked back to his computer. One kitten named after a constellation.

"Song?" Sherlock muttered.

"Sorry?" John didn't understand the context.

"What if we named the other Song?"

John frowned at the peculiar choice, reasonably skeptical as the name itself was fine. "What after?"

"Song Ci. Author of _Xi Yuan Ji Lu_ , the alternative English title being _Collected Cases of Injustice Rectified_. He was a Chinese physician, judge, and forensic scientist. His work was ground breaking for the time."

"And what time was that exactly?" John couldn't help but ask.

"He died in 1249 at the age of 63 ish." Sherlock said.

John nodded slowly. "I don't see a problem with it."

"Fantastic. That was rather dull. And people do this with children?" Sherlock asked, then an understanding cleared his face of all puzzle-induced wrinkles. "That's why I ended up with such a ridiculous name."

John frowned at the admission. "You blame the process of picking a name for you parents naming you Sherlock?"

The detective frowned at him as if he'd said something completely stupid. "No." He shook his head and looked so utterly disgusted, John had to try not to laugh. "William." Sherlock sneered.

John realized rather suddenly that he was confused. "What about William?"

"It's a dreadful name." Sherlock said.

"No, it isn't." John said. What did Sherlock have against the Williams of the world?

And in that moment, John's mind connected the pieces of their conversation. "Your… your name isn't Sherlock?"

"Of course it is." He said, sounding distracted as her scratched the kitten's ear. "I dropped my first."

John frowned, allowing that information to process for a moment. "So you… your first name is _William_?"

"Honestly, John, if you were any slower you'd be going backwards." Sherlock told him, slumping lower into his chair.

John blinked at him blankly. What should he do with that information? What even _could_ he do with it? The answer was pretty simple: Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! No extra notes today, but I do hope all of you Americans enjoyed your Thanksgiving and were careful during Black Friday.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **TapTapAlways:** I'm so mean to him, aren't I? Also, your response was perfect! If you are indeed the deity of fluff, then do share your wisdom (but not to spoil for others *wink*)

 **Guest (11-18):** Oh my goodness, it was tough for me to write. And you're right. Cats, or any pet really, are our family. I'm really glad you liked it, and thought it was wonderful in a sad sort of way. I do understand what you meant, but can't really put it into words myself! Thank you for reviewing!

 **Liberty J (Guest):** Wow, that is a high compliment! Thank you so much for it and the review!


	8. A Parting Flour

A/N: In short, not dead. A long week, and then exams, and then a trip... In fact, I'm visiting a friend. Though that really wouldn't make a difference to you, I suppose... Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next installment. And have a very Merry Christmas, if that is something you celebrate. I'll try to post another chapter before New Years, but we'll have to see how the schedule pans out.

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

* * *

" _Sherlock Holmes_!"

John's head snapped up from the newspaper at Mrs. Hudson's shrill call of horror, frustration, and anger all at once. He looked to where his flatmate had previously been deep in his mind palace, Khoshekh resting in his normal place on Sherlock's stomach, though the creature was at least twice the size it had been when it started the habit.

Now, however, Sherlock's face was a picture of terror at their landlady's tone, the Consulting Detective very aware of the world around him.

"What did you do now?" John asked him.

"I don't know." Sherlock looked as confused as John felt, but exponentially more horrified. Maybe that role would have been reversed had the old woman been screaming John's name that way instead of his.

Thundering footsteps were heard that seemed to belong to someone four-times as heavy as Mrs. Hudson as she came up the flights of stairs to arrive at the door of their flat.

In each hand, she held a brown cat, both bearing splotches of powdery white that John could guarantee hadn't been there the last time he'd seen them. One of the cats – he was pretty sure it was Orion – sneezed, shaking loose some of the… was it flour?

That was when the ex-army doctor noticed that it also totally covered Mrs. Hudson's shoes and the majority of her apron. The scowl on her face was like no other, and it surprised John how quickly Sherlock was on his feet and taking the felines from the unforgiving grip of their landlady.

"I've been patient with them." She spoke in harsh tones. "I've tried to be kind, but in the last month, they've ruined _five batches_ of biscuits, and _six_ loaves of bread. _Six_ , Sherlock!"

"I know, Mrs. Hudson. But they're still kittens, can't you just—"

"They're not just kittens anymore, Sherlock. They're a few months old now, and that's practically adulthood for cats and you know it. I told you that you couldn't keep them all in this flat, and I'm sticking with it now."

Sherlock gently brushed some of the flour from the cats before setting them down gently. "Technically we didn't keep _all_ of them."

"Giving away one cat isn't enough anymore." She told him firmly. "The mess they make is too much for me to handle. I'm not your housekeeper, and I already have to pick up after them as if I was because they keep sneaking into my flat."

Sherlock gained the look of a scolded child who was told he couldn't keep the dog he'd found on his way home from school. It was sad, almost, the way his shoulders drooped, though he was obviously trying to hide it.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, softening her demeanor instantly. "It's not that I don't love having them, Sherlock. But the work of having to keep four of them is getting to be too much. Even for you."

He nodded in reluctant agreement, seemingly dejected.

Mrs. Hudson looked to John for help, but the ex-army doctor could only shrug. He never knew how to approach the subject with Sherlock before, which was the main reason they still had four cats.

"I might… have an idea of where they could go," Sherlock spoke after a moment, his deep voice disappointed. "They'll be gone by tomorrow evening."

"Not all of them," Mrs. Hudson tried to lighten the blow she'd dealt. "Khoshekh is very well behaved. And maybe Fish could stay, too."

But he said nothing more, just walking to his bedroom down the hall without even a glance in John's direction.

The cats all tried to follow him – he had always been their favorite human in 221B – but he firmly closed his door before any of them could enter.

Mrs. Hudson sighed again, this one sounding a bit hopeless. "Well, now I feel like I've kicked a puppy."

"I know." John agreed. "Getting Sherlock to make that face is a painful hit to the conscience. But you were right."

"That doesn't help much." Mrs. Hudson told him.

John stood and approached her. "You told him from the beginning that he couldn't keep them all."

"Yes, but to seem him so genuinely happy again because of living things instead of… dead things. It's strange, but I like it."

John nodded, and gently rubbed her arm. "How about you go get cleaned up and try again at making that bread? I'll keep the cats corralled up here."

She nodded her agreement and left the room in a similar way to Sherlock. Silently and sadly.

John sighed and closed the door behind her, his eyes following the powdery trail left by Orion and Song. "Let's get you cleaned up, too, okay? Before you make another mess."

* * *

He hadn't been lying. By the next evening, both Orion and Song were gone, though John had no idea where Sherlock had moved them to. It was strange, really. John woke up in the morning, and they were all there, but when he returned home from work, the brown cats were nowhere to be found.

John spent the majority of the evening looking for them, wondering whether or not they were just hiding. Sherlock put a stop to that.

"Quit looking around like that." Sherlock snapped at him.

John hadn't even realized he was doing it. "I was just—"

"—looking for the kittens." He finished for his friend. "Don't bother, because they're gone."

The doctor frowned. "Gone where?"

"What does it matter? They're not here so it's none of your concern anymore." He said bitterly, slouching lower into his chair.

John hesitated. "They're safe though?"

"Well… if you're asking whether or not they'll be hurt or unhealthy, the answer is no." Sherlock spoke carefully. "Safe is a bit of a stretch though."

John felt his blood run cold as fear quickened his pulse. "What did you do to Song and Orion?"

"The fact you think I would have done anything to them is offensive."

"Well, I can't really help it, as vague as you're being," John admitted.

"Orion, I gifted to Molly. About twenty days ago, her eldest cat died. I allowed her a grieving period, but she was still upset last week when I saw her in the morgue, so…" He made a dismissive gesture in the air over his head.

John smiled slightly. "That was very kind of you, Sherlock."

"If she's upset all of the time, she won't do her job properly and therefore would not be able to help me." He shrugged. "Simple."

"Fine. But what did you do with Song?"

Sherlock grinned, the expression somewhere between fake and mischievous. "Song is with Mycroft."

John blinked. "Mycroft asked for a cat?"

Sherlock hesitated. "No."

"So you offered him a cat and he agreed to take it?"

"Again, no."

"Then you must have gifted it to him." John tried.

Sherlock pondered that a moment. "You could phrase it that way, I suppose."

John froze. "Don't tell me you left Song on your brother's doorstep."

"Are you joking?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his flatmate. "This isn't a movie, sensible people don't just… leave living creatures on the doorstep of one's home. It's savage, really." The detective shook his head. "No, I broke into his house and left Song on his favorite sofa."

Still, John found himself frozen to his spot. "Yes, that's much more conventional than leaving Song on his porch, Sherlock. Glad you came up with a new solution."

"What else was I supposed to do with him?" Sherlock asked with a shrug. "Molly can't afford to have more than three cats and we couldn't have more than two."

"Maybe _ask_ your brother, or find someone else?" John offered, mildly concerned by the fact these ideas hadn't been the first alternatives to come to his flatmate's mind.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Relax, would you? It's not like he'd throw Song out onto the street."

John stared at him, still horrified. "And how exactly do you know he wouldn't?"

Sherlock smirked. "You know, if he were at all upset by the idea, he would have reached me by now. It's been hours. This time next week, I guarantee that cat will be as fat as he is."

John rolled his eyes and looked away. He would never understand the Holmes brothers' relationship. Not in the slightest.

* * *

A/N: I know, we sort of said goodbye to them, but don't worry. They'll be back, probably. I've got an idea for a few of them. Also, a quick reminder that this story has a really loose plot, and no clear ending, so the moment I run out of ideas is the moment this will end. That isn't now, though. I've still got a few more tricks up my sleeve.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **TapTapAlways:** Oh, don't apologize, I found that very amusing when I read it, to be honest. I hope you're still enjoying this story, and thank you so much for another review!

 **joycelyn. :** I'm glad you like the name! It was fun to find, and I was looking for some sort of obscure information that Sherlock would have been willing to keep in his mind palace. This fit as well as anything else could, in my opinion. I'm also glad you liked my bit with Khoshekh. Writing a kitten's personality is harder than it sounds... And here is the next chapter! I hope you enjoyed it!

 **PhoenixLordess:** Love the name, ALSO I'm really happy you're enjoying this. The idea was a random one, but it's working nicely, I think. As for Sherlock keeping Khoshekh... that is a very good question.

 **Guest (11-26):** I'm very happy you like the names, and I'm happy to say that writing this fic is an absolute joy. Thank you so much for your review!

 **Muireann xx (Guest):** I'm glad you're enjoying the story! Cat personalities are exciting to write but difficult. Almost like writing people. Also, I absolutely adore the name William. So don't be sad! It's a great name. I actually have a cousin called the same... Thank you for your review!

Catch you later!


	9. A Song to Sing

A/N: *pokes head hesitantly into figurative view* Hey, guys! I am so sorry it's taken so long to update. There was the Christmas season, and then the end of the semester, and then I caught a nasty bug that I'm still not rid of... I know, excuses. But they're relevant, really. I do hope your new year is absolutely fantastic thus far and continues to be! And I hope you're all in better health than me...

Disclaimer: I don't have an editor of any kind, and I'm very American. Also, I blame the medication I'm on for any major mistakes.

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

Enjoy Mycroft and his reaction to suddenly possessing a kitten. I hope he wasn't too OOC... I haven't written much of him, and am therefore out of practice.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes entered his home and noticed immediately that something was off. Deduction and training for his position pointed him quickly to the sources of that feeling. The first, and most obvious, being the note left on the dining table. He didn't recall setting anything there. In fact, he barely used it. It was more for looks, and when his parents were over for a very, fortunately, rare visit.

However, that wasn't the only thing. As he cautiously approached the note, he also noticed that there was a pen sitting on the floor directly next to the table. As if it had simply been nudged off of its surface with careful consideration not to have it travel far. A quick look at the pen and the note and he calculated that the writing utensil contained the same ink as the paper.

Now Mycroft paid particular attention to the note itself. Paper from his own printer, the one in his locked office further into the house. The pen, also one of his, an older one. One he wouldn't mind using casually. Either luck of the draw that his visitor hadn't picked one of his expensive pens, or a choice with a purpose.

The note itself read only " _Song prefers dry food_ ", whatever that was supposed to mean. Mycroft frowned, slightly apprehensive at the vagueness of the message until he looked closer at the handwriting. It was his brother's.

Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. Only Sherlock would have been able to break into his home and leave a vague note without tripping any sort of alarm system. He probably even used his own key.

 _Mew_.

The tension that had begun to leak out of the British official was swiftly sucked up again as he heard the noise. He slowly turned in place to lock eyes with a small cat, only a few months old, and it was one he recognized.

One of the kittens of Baker Street.

What was it doing there?

The question was quickly answered by the note, and he sighed again. Pieces began to fall into place. Sherlock had chosen one of his older pens because he wanted to make sure there was nothing that would give Mycroft the urge to return the animal. That was the same reason Sherlock hadn't simply stolen that same pen and had left it on the table for him to find.

The cat must have knocked it to the floor.

Mycroft looked back at the creature sitting contently in front of him, and stared at it for a long moment, unsure. It seemed rather calm on its own. Mature in its own way. Very collected as far as animals went. And its name was Song. He wondered, for a moment, what the inspiration of such a name had been. Though that would depend on who named it.

"I see you've made yourself welcome, having already walked all over my table." He spoke coldly.

The animal didn't seem intimidated, simply twitching its tail.

"I'm afraid I can't say that you _are_ welcome in this establishment," Mycroft said. "Admittedly, I'm not entirely sure what my brother's inspiration was for leaving you here."

The cat tipped its head in an almost investigative fashion.

Mycroft frowned at it. "What?"

The cat paused in the silence, before standing and meandering over toward him. Mycroft kept himself still and watched it warily as it began to rub its face against his calf.

"Marking me as property now, are you?" He spoke accusingly.

This did nothing but prompt a deep purr from the creature.

He sighed, leaning his umbrella against the table, and reaching down to lift the young cat. It didn't squirm in his hold, rather relaxed in it. As if it were completely trusting of him.

"You've only met me once before," Mycroft mentioned. The purrs seemed to increase.

He took a deep breath and set the creature back on the ground. He couldn't get attached to this… thing. No matter how much it seemed to like him. Nothing liked him.

Until now, it seemed.

Mycroft pondered the idea of having a pet. A cat would, admittedly, be the best option for him. They didn't need a lot of looking after. Keep the litter box clean, make sure it's fed and watered, and really it could entertain itself. And it would be nice, having some sort of living presence to come home to.

He shook his head at the sentiment. It was, frankly, ridiculous. He'd lived that long without a pet, and he could certainly go longer.

But as Mycroft observed the creature as it sauntered off toward the kitchen, he thought. Sure, he _could_ survive longer without the company. But that didn't mean he _had_ to. Maybe it was about time he allowed himself this one selfish pleasure. Perhaps it wasn't even selfish at all. If Sherlock was gifting him the animal, then that meant he couldn't keep it himself. Mycroft was doing his brother a favor.

That was all. He wouldn't get attached.

There was a chorus of cries from the creature in the kitchen, and Mycroft wondered how long it had been since the cat had eaten.

 _Song prefers dry food._

Mycroft sighed. "I'm coming." He told the creature, walking in that direction. Perhaps it would be best to have one of his employees stop and grab some cat food before they came over with the morning report. That would be best. Because of course, Sherlock wouldn't make sure to leave food for the feline. In fact, Mycroft realized wouldn't have any of the basic necessities for Song.

He began to compile a list and vaguely wondered if cats really did like tuna. And if they did, would Song prefer a fish-based treat instead of the dry food? Maybe Sherlock had already completed that experiment, and that was why he'd come to the conclusion and written it on the note. _Song prefers dry food_.

Either way, a few treats wouldn't go amiss.

* * *

For the next few weeks, Mycroft noticed that there were often traces of a visitor while he was off at work. The occasional extra used mug for tea in his sink. An additional cat toy that hadn't been there that morning when he'd left. And every time he would check his security and it would be confirmed that Sherlock had been there for anywhere between five and twenty minutes, and then left.

At first, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock didn't trust him to care for the animal, and was offended. He took care of the United Kingdom as a whole, surely he could be trusted with a growing kitten.

But after the visits leveled out and became a regular occurrence of every four days, Mycroft realized that Sherlock wasn't coming over to make sure the cat was still there and alive. He was coming over to visit. That was it. Only to visit Song.

Mycroft had a camera put in his sitting room – what appeared to be Song's favorite area of the house – so that he could keep an eye on what was happening when he wasn't home. He was curious about what Sherlock did when he stopped over, mostly because there was barely anything out of place. As if Sherlock took extra care to make sure Mycroft didn't notice his presence.

It was a bit odd. More than that; it was thoroughly bizarre. It didn't make sense. Why would Sherlock break into Mycroft's home and not boast about it? His continuous visits were something to marvel at, no doubt. Their purpose shrouded in mystery. So, on a day he knew Sherlock would be over, Mycroft watched the feed from his house carefully.

Sherlock entered using his key, just as Mycroft predicted he did. Closing the door behind him. He then slipped off his shoes, so there was no trace of prints in the rest of the house. Then he walked into the sitting room. Almost immediately, Song was at his feet, mewing and crying as if she hadn't had visitors in days. Sherlock crouched down and scratched behind her ear, muttering some sort of greeting the camera didn't catch.

Then "Is Mycroft still good to you?"

There was no obvious response from the cat, but Sherlock smiled and continued to pet her, so the answer must have been satisfactory. "Sorry, love. No extra toys today."

The cat instantly pulled away from him, almost offended. Sherlock laughed a little. "Now if I'd known you only liked me because I give you things, I would have stopped a long while ago." Before Sherlock was even halfway through his sentence, the cat began sniffing at his signature long coat, digging her nose into the folds of the fabric as if looking for something.

"Oh, you smell it, don't you?" Sherlock sounded amused. "Observant as always." He reached into his pocket and removed a small bag. "Khoshekh likes them, so I thought you might, too." He dug into the bag and seemed to pull a tiny thing from it. He set it on the ground in front of him and Song practically attacked the spot. It was a treat.

"Should I leave these for Mycroft to give you?" Sherlock mused aloud to the animal. "He probably has enough treats for you himself. You look to have gained at least three pounds since you moved in here. I'll have to tell John I told him so."

Again, there was no obvious response from the cat, but Sherlock smiled anyway. "All right. Fine. Just let me put them in the drawer."

Mycroft smirked. That was a clever idea. Whenever he asked one of his people to get treats for the cat, he always told them to leave it in the drawer next to the refrigerator. He would never have known Sherlock was the one to leave them there had he not been watching the camera feed. What else had Sherlock left in that drawer that Mycroft didn't buy?

"Got to run, Song. Still haven't seen your brothers in a while. Ms. Hooper works odd hours. Though I suppose, there's no one to blame for that but myself, yeah?" Sherlock said suddenly, giving the cat one more scratch on the head before presumably going to the kitchen to put the treats away.

He showed back up on the screen a moment later, at the door, sliding his shoes back on. "I'll talk to you again in a few days. Stay out of trouble." He paused. "Unless that trouble involves messing with Mycroft. In which case, feel free to cause chaos."

And with that, Sherlock left.

Mycroft frowned at the screen. So Sherlock regularly checked in on his cat, only to say hello? And he did the very same for the kittens he'd gifted to Molly Hooper. There was only one explanation, of course. Sherlock missed them. But his taking precautions to hide the visits seemed to imply he didn't want anyone to know about them.

Sherlock had become attached to them. It was, in its unusualness, a relief. His brother was branching out in his caring of living things. And it was no longer limited to his landlady and flatmate. This could lead to better things, he hoped. Sherlock seemed happier.

Mycroft vaguely wondered how long it would take Sherlock himself to realize the change.

* * *

A/N: Again, I'm really sorry it's taken me this long. I love this story so much, and it's normally very relaxing to write. I'm not sure quite how much of this I have left in me, though. Definitely a few more chapters... I want to cover Moriarty visiting the flat, and probably the fall and the return. We'll see. Thank you for reading! And I hope you liked it.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **Raintag:** Thank you so much! And yes, I agree, this is a pretty crazy concept. It's working surprisingly well so far, though...

 **Guest (12/22 and 24):** It's okay, I understood exactly what you meant! And, as you've read in this chapter, I liked the idea of Mycroft and a kitten as well. No big messes yet, but as a cat owner, I know they will certainly come up. Just assume that Mycroft deals with them with extreme exasperation. I'm really glad you enjoy this story!

 **SummerosMarch:** I'm really glad you enjoyed this! Thank you so much for your review, and I did have a good new year. I hope yours was pleasant as well.

Catch you later!


	10. Claw-ged Sinuses

A/N: Hey, guys! Long time no "see", yeah? (I know the chapter title is really cheesy, but give me a break; I wanted a pun.) For the record, I know these updates have been far apart, and I'm sorry. I could give you loads of excuses, but they don't really matter all that much because you're getting a chapter now! This one isn't very long, but it has a story behind it that I don't actually explain in the chapter itself because it didn't really fit with the dialogue or anything. I would have had to create another scene entirely in order to fit it in, and I was concerned that would seem redundant, so... I'll explain at the end?

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

One more note, I am actually beginning to run out of material... anything you wish to see, please let me know? I could use the inspiration. I do, however, have a few more scenes up my sleeve, and they'll be really long chapters when I finally get around to posting them. Especially the first one in that category because it's a scene from the show manipulated specifically to also include the kittens of Baker Street.

But enough of that. On with the story!

* * *

John sighed deeply, sinking into his designated armchair tiredly. He tried to take a deep breath but remembered with a start that he couldn't breathe through his nose and parted his lips with an annoyed roll of his eyes. His sinuses were congested to the point of supplying him with a headache. And a generous amount of pain just around his eyes.

It was that time of year, and it was bound to happen sooner or later. Especially for someone who worked around sick people all of the time. Precautions were taken, but there was really only so much someone could do.

With that resigned thought, John leaned his head back. There was a soft rumbling noise, oddly comforting before he felt a soft rub on his leg. John forced his eyes open and looked downward to lock eyes with an orange cat. He smirked and reached over to affectionately scratch the animal behind their ears.

The animal then, without a moment's hesitation, sprung onto his lap. As if the petting was a granted permission.

Chips – or Fish, frankly John didn't care anymore – walked a few circles on top of John's lap before perching himself on John's right leg, the creature tucking all of the limbs it had underneath itself. The purring it emitted was thunderous.

John smirked, and stroked its back. "Taking pity on me, are you?"

The purr seemed to deepen, as if in response. A calm washed over the doctor, and he leaned his head back once more.

The only clue John had to his dozing off was the soft tap of fur on his cheek pulling him to full alertness. A smooth black tail shimmered by his face and he was suddenly aware of the odd pressure on the back of the chair. The extra purring from behind his ear caused him to smile slightly and reach up to pet Khoshekh.

Further evidence of John's illness was one clue; Sherlock. John had barely noticed the Consulting Detective's absence, as John often walked in on him being routed silently in his mind palace. No, it was the man's sudden arrival that led John to realize he hadn't been there in the first place.

The thundering up the stairs cut off the purrs as the cats turned their heads expectantly to the door. John was sure the moment Sherlock came into the room, Chips and Khoshekh would have already left him in favor of their favorite human.

It amused John that Sherlock Holmes never questioned the odd loyalty of the creatures, taking their presence as an absolute. They were always there, always by him. Almost like John himself. This thought cast a fond smirk on the doctor's face as Sherlock burst into the flat.

A flurry of movement as Sherlock didn't even remove his coat as he rushed to the table. He dug and dug through pile after pile of papers and files. Tossing a few books haphazardly onto the floor as he searched, Sherlock paid no mind to the three of his companions nestled in John's chair.

That is, not until John coughed. The soldier had felt the feeling claw at his throat, but he'd never been one to enjoy coughing. The sensation itself was simply awkward to him. However, being a doctor, he knew the benefits of the reaction in dislodging phlegm in his throat. But he made sure to tuck his mouth and nose into the sleeve of his jumper.

Sherlock turned to him abruptly, and John was momentarily sure he'd startled the detective. That was, of course, until he saw the look of irritation on the younger man's face.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock snapped.

John frowned at him, somewhere between confused and offended. "I'm sick."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know that. Why are you all…?" He waved his hand vacantly as he turned his attention back to the table, still looking for something. "We've got a case. You've taken off your shoes and let not just one cat claim you, but two!"

"We've got a case?" John repeated, his ears feeling as if they'd been stuffed with cotton. Of course, he'd heard Sherlock correctly, but his brain took what seemed like forever to process the words. And by the time it finally got around to it, John wasn't sure if he'd heard them correctly anymore.

"Don't repeat me, it's dull." Sherlock pulled a specific file from the clutter. He flicked his wrist, causing the paper to give a soft snap in response as it straightened itself. "Grab your coat."

John sniffed, and moved to lift Chips from his lap. The action was groggy, and John wondered if the brief nap he'd had managed to put him too deeply into a sleep cycle to be fully awake even then. It would take nearly the entire cab ride to wake up again.

"Wait."

Sherlock's sharp demand caused John to freeze out of reflex. There was an amount of wary command in that tone that made him still instantly, as that sort of tone in direction had saved his life before. John lifted his eyes to Sherlock. "What?"

The detective was staring at him with a furrowed brow. "You really are sick."

"Yeah, I tried to say." John moved to stand again, but Sherlock continued and John stopped.

"Both of them." Was the confused whisper.

"What?" Confusion colored John's inquiry now.

Sherlock gestured with the file toward him. "Fish _and_ Khoshekh. They're both… purring."

John looked over his shoulder for needless confirmation that Khoshekh was still present before shrugging. "They're both cats. Of course they would—"

"No," Sherlock stopped him. "I'll…" He trailed off and started again. "You stay here. Rest."

"But – the case!" John objected.

"No crime scene. Just to the morgue. Needed the research I did on mold a month ago. I don't have the time to waste on Bart's terrible printers, so I'm bringing my own copy." Sherlock brandished the file. "Stay. Rest. Drink tea or something. Have you taken medication?"

John stared when given Sherlock's sudden question, as it put forward the illusion of concern. But Sherlock was never concerned. Not really. "Er… yeah?"

"How long ago?"

"What time is it?"

"A bit after seven." The answer was shot back.

"Maybe an hour ago?" John offered. That was just when he'd gotten home, and before he'd settled himself in his armchair. That had been one of the first things he'd done upon crossing the threshold of 221B. Medicine.

"Good." Sherlock didn't offer a parting word beyond that before he stalked out of the flat.

John paused, still frozen somewhere between standing and sitting, leaning forward over Chips. He contemplated following the detective. But quickly he realized he'd taken too long to think about it as the door closed at the bottom of the stairs with a firm slam. By the time he would have gotten his shoes on, Sherlock would have been long gone.

The doctor tried to relax back into his chair. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere dangerous at the moment. Just St. Bart's Hospital.

A thought pushed its way into John's mind. Sherlock had realized John was sick. Probably deduced it somehow. But the Consulting Detective hadn't really acknowledged it at first. But something… something he saw changed his mind.

What had Sherlock said?

 _They're both purring_.

John frowned thoughtfully as he observed both of the felines perched around him and how they purred gently, deeply. It was odd that something like that would have clued Sherlock into the idea that John was feeling worse than he looked. What did they have to do with it? Why did their purring specifically matter?

The questions seemed to feed an extra strike of pain to John's head and he reached a hand up to rub his brow in mild annoyance at the intrusion to not only his comfort but also his thoughts.

Then he was suddenly hyperaware of Khoshekh's purring. It was… soothing. Almost. More on a psychological level, probably, John thought. Though the vibrations through his leg and the back of the chair did have a calming effect on their own. Perhaps it wasn't as psychological as he thought.

It seemed as if the thoughts he'd had in a string should connect in some way. But whatever way they locked together, John didn't put the effort forward to find out. He was feeling too awful. However, the doctor was aware of the fact that Sherlock had made the connection and had seen it clearly, which no doubt was the reason for leaving him behind.

John sniffed, and looked around for something to wipe his nose with.

Nothing in his immediate vicinity.

He could always go and find something.

Just then, Chips shifted to get into a more comfortable position, and John allowed himself a smirk. He'd just wait for later then.

* * *

A/N: Thank you guys so much for reading this! And if you've favorited/followed/reviewed this story, I am also incredibly appreciative of you, too! This story is getting so much support, and it's gone on for a lot longer than I thought it would... So my gratitude goes to you.

Now, for the explanation thing. I actually have a cat (and he's completely black, like Khoshekh), and a few weeks ago, a virus went through my house. Everyone who lives here got some form of that virus at some point. I got it first, though, and it took about two weeks for me to get through it. The point of this story is that, while we were all sick, my cat seemed to be able to sense who was feeling the worst and would go curl up on their lap before purring loudly. He did this for that entire two weeks. Relentlessly. No matter where you were, he'd come and lay on top of you as if he were your only ticket to health and he knew it. I was actually writing the last chapter when he came and tried to snuggle on my lap while I was at my desk. He's so weird, and I love him.

That was the inspiration for this chapter, as I wondered how Sherlock would react to both cats (who normally follow him around without fail) snuggled around an obviously-sick John Watson. That, on top of his gained knowledge that cat purrs have healing qualities, would probably lead him to the conclusion that the last thing John probably needed was to go stand in a chilly morgue while Sherlock inspected mold on a corpse.

I hope you enjoyed it a little at least.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **TapTapAlways:** I love getting reviews from you. For some reason it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. I'm really glad you thought it was cute (I did, too).

Catch you later!


	11. Paws-itively Freezing

A/N: Wow, I am so sorry. I've had this written for, like, a week, and forgot to publish it! It's terrible, I know, but be happy! New chapter! This one was a requested idea, and I can't claim it. Thank you, Guest Reviewer Balloony Toons (aka 1 Corinthians 1313)! I hope it is up to your expectations.

Disclaimer (because I didn't in the last chapter): I'm American. Sorry for any terms I mix up. And I don't have any sort of beta or editor, so there may be grammar mistakes and/or spelling errors. That's your warning.

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

On with the story!

* * *

John left his coat on when they returned to the flat. It was cold. Nearly as cold as it was outside. The only thing keeping the inside of the flat warmer was the lack of wind chill. Because the walls kept it out. That was it. Walls kept in the little heat the building could retain and kept out the freezing gusts of air that always seemed to be present this time of year.

Because of course, in the middle of a case and in the cold weather, the heating would go out. Great timing.

Sherlock had also left his coat on as they mounted the stairs and entered the sitting room of 221B. The chill in the air was the kind to seep slowly through the layers of fabric they had swaddled around themselves so the brief respite wouldn't last long. Unlike the quickly penetrating cold of outside, the wind acting as a frozen dagger, this cold was patient. Slow. Creeping like vines that grow themselves into a brick wall just to break it apart.

It was only so bad because the temperature decided to drop nearly five degrees over the course of the afternoon. And they hadn't lit a fire due to the lack of anyone to monitor it. Mrs. Hudson was staying next door with Mrs. Turner, an old friend, because the cold wasn't good for her hip.

So they were greeted simply by a chilled atmosphere upon their arrival. John instantly went to the fireplace, pulling logs from their pile and placing them on the rack. His shoulder ached, for similar reasons as Mrs. Hudson's hip. The old wound frustrated him more than pained him then, though. He just wanted to be warm after having to stand outside for hours helping Sherlock track down a witness to a murder.

A simple request. Very simple.

Not simple enough, it seemed.

Sherlock rubbed his palms together, the friction warming his gloved fingers, as he looked around the flat almost anxiously.

John spared a sideways glance as he looked for the lighter he'd previously placed on the mantel. It wasn't there. He checked around on the floor – to make sure it hadn't fallen – before sighing. Sherlock had probably moved it to the kitchen to use it for an experiment.

"Sherlock?"

No response.

John looked to his friend, who hadn't acknowledged him even briefly. Instead, he was slowly rotating in place with a disapproving and puzzled expression secured on his features.

"Sherlock?" The doctor called again, this time warily as the man continued to frown and turn in circles. Again, no response. John took a deep breath, releasing it tiredly. "Sherlock!" He insisted.

The taller man broke momentarily out of his furious look for… something. "What?" He snapped irritably.

"What are you looking for?" John asked.

"The cats."

John frowned. "The cats?"

"Yes, John, the cats." Sherlock resumed his twisting and turning. "They're not here. They're _always_ here."

John looked around and agreed it was odd. There was no sign of the felines. Normally, there would at least be a loud greeting before they rushed off to find seclusion. Or to nap. Or both. This time, there wasn't. No sound, and no physical appearance of them.

Sherlock was still frowning deeply, the puzzle doing more to worry and aggravate him than the case they had nearly finished with the Yard, involving a triple murder. Of course it did. This was Sherlock, after all.

"They probably went off to find someplace warm and just didn't come and greet us." John tried to reassure his friend.

Sherlock shook his head, but apparently not dismissive of John's idea as he spoke "Perhaps, yes. But where?"

John shrugged and tried to think of warm places. He hadn't found the lighter to start the fire yet, but maybe he could coax the creatures out of hiding with the promise of warmth near the flame?

But where could the cats have gone? It was puzzling.

"Sherlock, where did you put the lighter?"

No response as Sherlock began checking behind the sofa.

"Do we still have matches?" John mused aloud, wandering toward the kitchen.

"Could they have gone down to Mrs. Hudson's flat?" Sherlock asked. "You came up first. What did the door look like?"

"Closed, Sherlock. It was closed to try and preserve the heat." John supplied. He had closed it himself as they left, locking the cats inside.

There were no further questions from the detective, but there was quite a bit of rustling going on in the other room. John tried to ignore it in favor of looking on the table amongst the collage of a lab for a lighter. No sign.

He then checked the drawers underneath the counter, hoping to find the matches he knew he'd left there somewhere. But where?

In the midst of his search for matches, he stumbled across a lighter. How convenient. It wasn't the normal one he used, however, and John wondered if it was still functional. He lifted it and tried to start the flame. It emitted a soft grind and click, and there was nothing, not even the usual spark. John tried a few more times in an almost desperate succession. And then he heard it.

A soft _mew_.

John stalled in the motion of trying the lighter again. Had he imagined that? Instead of using the lighter, he recreated a clicking noise with his tongue against his front teeth with pursed lips. A sound he normally made out of reflex trying to summon the cats previously. There came the noise again.

"Sherlock," John called. "I've found them."

Footsteps and suddenly the taller man was standing next to John, looking around the kitchen. "Where?"

"I'm not totally sure, but listen." John held up a hand to silence the detective before creating the clicking noise again. More mews.

Sherlock rushed to open cupboards, and John decided to help. They looked on every shelf, in every container the creatures could possibly fit in. John even, running out of ideas, poked his nose underneath the table. No sign.

"Where are they?" Sherlock ground out in frustration.

"In your room? Maybe we're hearing them through the walls." John offered.

"No, no. They're here. In this room. Right here." Sherlock said. He then mimicked John's clicking noise, head tilted as if to catch the return sound better.

Another mew and Sherlock abruptly turned to face—

"The fridge?" John frowned. "But the fridge is cold."

"They're not _in_ the fridge, John." Sherlock rushed around to the side and began pulling at the machine to get it further away from the wall.

Behind it. Of _course_ they were behind it! John rolled his eyes at his own idiocy for not thinking of it. The motor of the refrigerator would have stayed running because they lost the heating, not the electricity. And that meant the machine would still expel heat, causing the back of the unit to be warm.

And, of course, the cats would have found that space.

"Khoshekh?" Sherlock called, almost sweetly, as he poked his head around the fridge.

There was an answer in the form of a nearly irritated cry, and John could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he responded. "Of course it's cold! I told you it would be. We're going to get the heating fixed as soon as possible. Are you going to stay back there and sulk?" There was a pause. "John's starting a fire."

"If I can find something to start it with, maybe," John mentioned, grabbing last week's newspaper from the table and tearing it to smaller pieces to kindle a flame. "Where's the lighter?"

"Matches, top shelf, right-hand side." Sherlock gestured vaguely out toward the main room of 221B without turning around.

John sighed, and grabbed a dining chair to drag along behind him. It just _had_ to be the top shelf. He couldn't easily reach that one. Sherlock, however, could reach the back if he stood on his toes. The few inches made a difference.

Once John had managed to get the box of matches down from where they were placed snuggly between some books on the top shelf, he started the fire in the hearth. As the flames danced, the tongues seemed to scare away the cold as heat wafted through the air. John was content to simply stand in front of it for a short while, allowing himself to find comfort in the warm embrace of the potentially-destructive element.

Sherlock had come out into the sitting room once more during John's basking. He was lifting his violin from its place then. But, instead of grabbing his bow and tightening the hair so he could play the instrument, Sherlock was frowning at it in an almost fond annoyance. He sat in his chair and began to tune the instrument. John knew very little about the notes the strings were supposed to play, but even he could tell it was way out of tune.

"The abrupt temperature change," Sherlock explained shortly as he gently plucked the strings, messing with the pegs. "I hadn't gotten a chance to retune it since."

"And you'll have to retune it again once the heating is back on." John guessed. There was a nod from the detective that clarified it as true.

Sherlock was returning the instrument to its place by the time the cats came out of hiding. John couldn't help but be amused by the hesitant but eager way the animals stalked toward the flame. They both sat, not too close to each other, and tucked their limbs underneath their bodies.

John was content to watch them. Each of the cats slowly seemed to melt and relax until they were curled up on their sides in the way you classically imagine cats to do. The longer he watched them, the closer they moved to each other. Miniscule shifts in their position, as if they were too proud to simply sit directly next to each other. He smirked at their antics, especially as Khoshekh suddenly rolled over and placed his paws directly on Chip's, the orange cat looking at the black one with an annoyance so intense John laughed a little.

He was already in a better mood, warmed as he was with the cats as entertainment, if only for the moment. The heat was spreading itself out throughout the place. Maybe the cats would stay out from behind the refrigerator for the night.

"Tea?" John suddenly offered, making his way to standing.

Sherlock gave an affirmative grunt, already seeming to be receding into his mind palace. Probably to review all of the information they currently had on the case. By the time John would return with tea, Sherlock would be deep in his mind while the cats had managed to slowly move closer toward – and curl against – each other. Now there was no hesitance, as they obviously snuggled on the carpet directly in front of the strong source of heat.

The doctor would smile, and enjoy his peace.

* * *

A/N: Aw, look at the snuggly cats... Well, I guess... you can't _really_... but you understand what I mean. Thank you for reading this! Again, I am so sorry for the wait you guys.

 **Review Response:**

 **MIMIbaggins:** Thank you so much for your review and the compliment! I never thought to compare them in that specific order, but it makes sense! I especially like comparing Lestrade to the grey one... I'll see what I can do.

 **Balloony Toons/1 Corinthians 1313:** This was a good idea! I personally have never experienced this, as my cat can't fit behind the fridge... but I've certainly heard stories of others' felines doing this. Thank you for the prompt!

 **mathgirl92:** OH MY GOODNESS HI. Thank you for reviewing! Luckily the cat didn't get up to too much in Mycroft's absence... And I completely agree. The idea of Sherlock sneaking by to visit just tickles me, and I couldn't help it. And I learned about the purring thing from my research specifically for this story. It's a fascinating concept but found on Google, so I'm not sure how accurate it is... I've tried to only use information Sherlock would have had easy access to himself.

Catch you later!


	12. Displaying Loyal-tea

A/N: _Sigh_... Okay, I'm sorry about not updating very frequently, (especially my other story) but life happens. It just does sometimes.

Many thanks to, well, you! For reading this! And if you've reviewed or favorited or followed me or my stories, thank you for that, too! I hope you enjoy this latest addition. Also, I couldn't help the pun in the chapter title, though it will make more sense in context (read "after you read the chapter").

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

Disclaimer: I know, so dull, but I don't own Sherlock, and this chapter actually has a lot of the dialogue from an episode, so I need to also give credit to Ariane DeVere for making this _so_ much easier on me. Also, I don't have a beta. Nor do I have a grasp of British terminology.

This chapter does contain a special guest that has been asked for... though there is no real interaction. I'll probably bring him back later, though.

* * *

Maybe it was the fact their sense of hearing was so developed, but one thing was certain; the cats of 221B Baker Street did not like violin music. At first, they seemed to hate it, which thoroughly amused John Watson and exasperated Sherlock Holmes.

They ran for cover the first time, racing through the flat so fast you could hear their tiny claws catch on the fibers of the carpet. After a while, though, they grew used to the noise and would leave in a calmer fashion. But they would still leave. It took a month of regular playing for them to stick around in spite of the pitch and/or volume, though Sherlock assumed this was because they'd discovered the lack of danger behind it.

But they still didn't enjoy it.

And after Khoshekh had begun to reflect his thoughts, the black cat frequently adopted a look of blank irritation every time Sherlock even reached for the instrument.

 _Must you really?_

"You may not like it, but I need it." Sherlock snapped at him.

The cat stretched out where it rested on the sofa. _Can't you do something else to stimulate yourself that doesn't involve aggravating my acute hearing?_

He glared at the creature. "Go somewhere else, if it annoys you so much."

At this, Khoshekh had simply shifted his weight as if preparing himself for the inevitable. Their exchanges often went this way.

Fish – or Chips – stayed continuously mute wherever he seemed inclined to rest when these occasions arose. Sherlock wasn't sure what to make of that. He would see Khoshekh and Fish have silent conversations, but Sherlock never heard them. Not that he would have expected to. Really, giving Khoshekh a voice was a bad idea on its own. He wasn't sure what he would do with two of them conversing with each other. He couldn't have a worse idea.

But the fact that Khoshekh, a creature only meant to reflect his thoughts back at him, was actually arguing with him… Sherlock had no idea what that was supposed to imply. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Nonetheless, he would still play his violin whenever he felt like it, and they would either tolerate being in the same room, or they wouldn't. It was all rather simple in that way.

But then there was a day where he was playing for a particular reason, and the cats acted strangely. Fish had moved to another room entirely already, but Khoshekh was there, sitting suspiciously close to his feet as he lifted his violin. He looked at the creature hesitantly. It was as if the cat knew what was coming. What he had been preparing for.

 _Tea?_ The cat seemed to inquire.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it. "You're a reflection of me, stop pretending you don't know what's going on."

 _Why tea?_

"We're having a guest, why wouldn't there be tea?"

 _You're giving him tea, though? As if he's an old friend who's swinging by to catch up? Really?_

"Shut up." He snapped, tucking his instrument underneath his chin. He then began to play a Bach Sonata, expecting the cat to go away in annoyance with the noise. Admittedly, he'd hoped it would. But Khoshekh stayed by his feet almost loyally.

In fact, out of the corner of his eye, he detected a patch of orange in the kitchen. As if Fish were staying close in case he was needed but felt the urge to stay away from the upcoming event. So he sat just out of sight.

There was a creak on the steps, and Sherlock felt his heart rate increase slightly as he paused in his playing. Khoshekh's hair along its tail stood on end, giving it the impression of being much thicker than it was. A fearful reaction. Sherlock tried not to think about it and, in his mind, he went back a few extra notes on the sheet music and began again.

Soon there was another presence in the room, and a glance proved that Khoshekh was not happy about it. The cat's pupils were sharp, showing much of the green present there.

Sherlock stopped playing then, keeping his focus out the window instead of turning around as of yet. "Most people knock." He spoke casually, shrugging slightly. "But then you're not most people, I suppose." He gestured with his bow toward the prepared tray at the table. "Kettle's just boiled."

There were footsteps, and Sherlock took the moment to nudge the black cat farther into the corner by the bookshelf, hoping that the creature wouldn't be so idiotic as to make itself known. But of course, it probably would. It was an animal.

"Johann Sebastian would be appalled." Came a voice Sherlock knew well, speaking of Sherlock's sudden stopping of the piece. He would recognize the man's speech in any form at this point, he was sure. "May I?"

Sherlock then turned to face him, and in an instant took in the neat suit and hair product, along with the apple he now held casually in his hand.

"Please," Sherlock urged, gesturing to the red chair John would normally sit in.

Much to his discomfort, Jim Moriarty moved to sit in Sherlock's own chair. The Consulting Detective tried not to roll his eyes – a reaction more toward the action and less toward its purpose – as he approached the seat he'd offered, set down his violin, and began pouring the tea.

Moriarty was now carving the apple with a small penknife. "You know when he was on his deathbed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end…"

"…and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano, and finished it." Sherlock filled in.

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody," Jim explained as if he needed to.

Sherlock saw the parallel. "Neither can you. That's why you've come."

"But be honest; you're just a tiny bit pleased." Moriarty's words were said with a hint of bemusement. Though really, it sounded incredibly fake and exactly as he normally spoke. It would grate on anyone's nerves, and Sherlock was determined not to let it do the same for him.

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock asked, pouring a splash of milk into one of the cups and offering it to his guest.

Jim straightened in his chair and took it. Softly, he spoke next. "With me back on the streets." He smiled, one that didn't meet his eyes. "Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain. You need me, or you're nothing."

He pointedly rotated his cup on its saucer so the handle was pointed the correct way. "Because we're just alike, you and I." He paused, looking out at the rest of the room. "Except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock took his own cup and sat in the chair opposite of his guest. His enemy. As he did so, he spoke. "Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London, you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

Sherlock didn't even hesitate, the idea coming to him instantly. "Cable network."

Moriarty looked slightly pleased. Only slightly. "Every hotel room has a personalized TV screen, and every person has their pressure point. Someone that they want to protect from harm." He lifted his cup to his lips. "Easy-peasy."

Sherlock was sitting now, holding his tea to his lips without taking a sip. "So, how are you going to do it?" He asked, before blowing lightly across the surface of the drink. Steam danced across the surface like a boiling fog. "Burn me?" He quoted.

"Oh, that's the problem," Moriarty told him. "The final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem?" In a lilting voice that was no less daunting, he continued. "I did tell you. But did you listen?"

Jim then lowered a hand to his knee, tapping away a pattern Sherlock watched closely, filing it away to reflect on later. He had time to figure it out yet.

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock replaced his cup to its place on its saucer with a shrug. "I don't know."

"Oh, that's clever, that's very clever, _awfully_ …" He trailed off, looking past Sherlock with sudden interest.

The Consulting Detective resisted the urge to turn, wondering if it were a trick. He wouldn't be that gullible. That is, he didn't think he would be. Until Moriarty's eyes narrowed the tiniest bit with a twitch. Something surprised him. What could have possibly done that?

There was the slightest chafing noise near his head that Sherlock recognized instantly, followed by an odd distribution of weight across the back of John's chair. His observations were confirmed when a black tail draped itself almost protectively over his shoulder. Or as if claiming territory in some bizarre form.

Inwardly, he wanted to react in two ways at once; smack the stupid cat off of the back of the chair, and also cradle it and put it into his room, far out of Moriarty's reach. Unfortunately, he could do neither, so he pretended as if the creature wasn't there.

"As you were saying. About my being clever, I believe. Really I must agree with you, but do continue." He urged with a polite wave of his hand.

Jim Moriarty stared for a moment longer at the creature resting behind Sherlock's head, and the Consulting Detective could hear a warning purr vibrating in the animal's body.

The Consulting Criminal leaned back in his chair, looking as if he didn't know what to do. "I've been calling John your pet, but really you've got two."

"Actually, three. If you are indeed counting John." Sherlock said with a bit of a smirk.

"I've never pegged you as a cat person," Moriarty spoke casually, but Sherlock could tell he was still recovering from the shock. The animal's presence had thrown him for a loop. All of the previous tension had melted quickly upon Khoshekh's reveal.

"Ah, yes. Well… neither did I."

"John's idea, then." Moriarty phrased it like a question, but it certainly didn't sound like one.

Sherlock answered it anyway. "No."

This obviously hadn't been the answer Jim was expecting. "Not…? So it _was_ yours?" He seemed to think on that for a moment, sipping at his tea.

"Anyway, as you were saying…" Sherlock urged him onward, becoming bored of – if still slightly amused by – his guest's surprise regarding the subject of his pet keeping.

"Right." Moriarty agreed. "Where was I?"

"I don't know." Sherlock quoted himself, trying hard to hide his smirk.

* * *

A/N: I hope Moriarty wasn't OOC at all near the end... the villains are always hard. Anyway, thank you - again - for reading!

I am once again running out of ideas for this story... I'll let you know when I've completely lost inspiration, but in the meantime, if you have any prompts and/or alternate ideas please let me know! I would love hearing them.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **DIwells51:** I'm so glad you could join us, and I'm happy to make you happy. Thank you for your review!

 **Balloony Toons (1 Corinthians 1313):** I am so very happy to hear from you again, and I ADORE the mental image of your younger brother rescuing a baby chipmunk and having it hide behind the refrigerator. It was a great prompt, and I enjoyed writing it. I hope that you enjoy my writing just as much in the future. Thanks again!

Catch you later!


	13. Maybe it's Only Tem-purr-ary?

A/N: Howdy, all! Thanks for the reviews and following/favoriting/reading this story. It means a lot to me. This chapter is a bit sad... and by "a bit" I mean a lot. You probably won't cry, but it's not very happy.

This chapter is inspired by a lovely review from LilyAnn9. Thank you for the inspiration, friend.

Reviewer Response at the bottom!

Disclaimer: I don't own... anything. Except for that bag of pencils sitting on my desk. No, not that one. The other one.

The beginning of this chapter is, obviously, just before the Fall. When we switch to John's point of view, however, that's shortly after. Sherlock jumped, and all of that, and John is particularly upset himself. Writing this chapter was difficult, and I've tried to make it up to par, but I don't believe I've succeeded. Nevertheless, it's probably as good as I'll be able to make it, so I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

Sherlock ran his hand through his hair and pressed himself further into his chair. Working out the details was so tedious. But it needed to be done. It needed to be done as soon as possible. Moriarty was going to call on him, and soon.

He just hoped he would have everything covered.

 _If you keep worrying, none of the plans will have logic in them._

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the black cat perched on John's chair across from him. "I'm not worried."

Khoshekh simply stared at him.

He sighed. "I wouldn't be if I could just… figure it out."

 _Jumping from the roof into a parked hospital van?_

"Impossible," Sherlock said. "Angle's too steep."

 _What about the system of Japanese wrestling—_

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "You don't…" He groaned in frustration and threw his head backward. "You don't get it. It's not possible. Of the thirteen scenarios I've come up with this far, only three of them are even feasible, and they all involve resources I don't have."

There was a long pause. _What about Mycroft?_

"What about Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped.

 _He would help you._

"No, he wouldn't."

 _You're his brother._ Khoshekh seemed to disagree. _And getting Moriarty and his web off of the streets seems like it would be a high priority for the British government._

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. The idea was sound. It would work. With Mycroft behind him, there were three chances he and John would actually survive the events that could pass.

With that thought, the Consulting Detective was made abruptly aware of the fear that tightened in his chest. The anxiety he'd pushed toward worry of getting everyone out alive suddenly left on its own without something to drive it into productivity.

He looked to the cat across from him, who had begun to bathe its front paw. "So…" At the word, Khoshekh paused, lifting its head. "I know that all of our conversations have been strictly in my head, and you're only a reflection of my thoughts. A mirror I use to help see areas my own eyes have missed." Sherlock frowned. "But… If this works… I'll be leaving for a long while."

Khoshekh shifted into a position that seemed more attentive, and Sherlock found himself feeling completely and utterly ridiculous. But he kept talking anyway. "Just… Keep an eye on him, would you? Keep him safe?"

For the first time, Sherlock noticed, Khoshekh said nothing in reply. Not a single word verbally inputted by his own mind. Instead, it was only a black cat. An animal of its own form, without outside influence, that stood and slinked over to sit in front of Sherlock's chair.

And then there was a mew.

Sherlock smiled, knowing it was confirmation. At least John wouldn't ever be alone.

* * *

John Watson was just about finished. With everything. He just wanted to go curl up under his covers and sleep for maybe the next decade. Or longer. Previous experience told him this was a ridiculous way to try and live a life, but it was hard. Even on days that were nearly okay, it was hard.

So very hard.

He unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street, a familiar tight feeling in his chest as he stepped into the building and closed the door behind him. His feet dragging in his exhaustion, he began mounting the stairs.

John was aware of the fact that he'd barely done anything that day. Just went out for some fresh air, after being in the flat was too… painful. It was that way, sometimes. Overwhelming to be there when he…

John sighed deeply and pulled off his jacket to hang on one of the hooks on the wall. Next to the empty one. It had been empty for nearly a two weeks now. And it stayed that way. For a moment, he allowed himself to remember the long, dark Belstaff coat that hung from that very spot more frequently than any other, no doubt.

His thoughts were interrupted by the tiny trod of paws on carpet and a questioning mew.

The doctor looked down at the black-furred animal. "No, I didn't."

Khoshekh looked past John's feet to the staircase, before mewing again.

"He didn't come back with me this time either," John told it. "Just… go lie down or something."

He walked past the creature to go toward the kitchen. He needed tea. On his way, he gave Chips' chin a gentle scratch. Or… Fish. Maybe he should call them Fish.

This thought had often crossed his mind, though he never seemed to act on it. John couldn't help calling it Chips. And why _couldn't_ it just be Fish _and_ Chips?

A sudden flash of a memory flickered in John's brain. Of Sherlock Holmes, with his hand around a tiny black kitten that had gotten its claws stuck in the fibers of his glorious coat collar. Of laughing at the worst puns he'd ever heard, just outside of a crime scene.

The abrupt recall caused his movements to falter, and it was as if his limbs had lost the will to function. He simply stood there a moment, numb in his grief, a large rock seeming to have appeared just behind his ribcage. It pushed hard against his lungs, and he couldn't seem to breathe properly. It all just… hurt. So much.

Eventually, he worked up the willpower to move, and he subconsciously glanced into the inside of the mug. And was suddenly happy he did, unsure he'd ever seen a mold of that variety. John wondered how long ago Sherlock had used it for an experiment. Or if the Consulting Detective had simply forgotten to wash it completely.

Either way, that mug went in the sink.

There was a gentle pressure against his calf as Fish-and-Chips rubbed against it comfortingly. John smiled. "Thanks."

The cat purred loudly in response.

After preparing his tea, John moved to the sitting room. As he tried to make himself comfortable in his own armchair, he glanced in the direction of the entryway. Sure enough, there was Khoshekh sitting with complete patience by the door.

John would have been worried had the cat gotten any thinner in the last few weeks. But it hadn't. Anytime it wasn't eating, however, it seemed to sit there. And stare at the stairs expectantly. And wait. And wait.

And wait.

John shook his head and looked away. His eyes wandered to the chair across from him. Empty and cold. A sharp pain cut through his throat, and suddenly he couldn't swallow any more tea.

Then, a mew.

And another.

And another, this one longer than the last.

"Khoshekh!" John snapped, and the cat's head turned abruptly. "He's not coming back."

Green eyes stared into brown as they watched each other, wondering who would make the first move.

It was the feline, who looked back to the door. And mewed again.

John sighed in exhaustion and tipped his head back, listening to the pleading cries of the cat. Pleading and sorrowful. As if asking why he left and if he would come back. If he would just not be…

Not be…

Not be dead.

"Khoshekh, we've been over this." John's voice was much softer now, strained by his thick emotions and pained throat. And yet, the cat silenced itself. "We've been over this every night since… and he isn't…" John sniffed, roughly rubbing the heel of his palm into his eyes to stem the flow of tears. "He isn't coming back."

Silence.

Slightly worried by the lack of response, John turned to look at the cat once more.

Its tail was completely still on the carpet, not even twitching as Fish-and-Chips meandered near it. No. Just statue posture, and staring resolutely at and out of the door. With all of the stubbornness of a creature used to getting its way. Tall and stiff and arrogant.

Not unlike Sherlock himself.

And then there was Fish-and-Chips, who sat next to the black cat, in a more relaxed fashion, not bothered by the tenseness of the other creature. He curled his limbs underneath himself and his eyes moved to Khoshekh, then to John, then to the door.

And both cats resumed their waiting.

If cats had nine lives, John thought, they would be waiting much longer than he.

* * *

John frowned at his phone's screen before answering the call. "What is it?"

"John," Mycroft greeted without hesitation. "I don't know what to do."

Startled by the frustrated tone in the other man's voice, John sat a little straighter. "What's wrong?"

"I've tried everything I can think of," Mycroft admitted. "And I've come up with no solution. Song will not stop making noise at all hours of the night."

Song?

His cat.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, but I don't know why…" John paused, realizing what it sounded like. It sounded like what Khoshekh was doing. "Um… what is Song mewing at?"

"The door," Mycroft answered, and John could almost hear the understanding as it hit. "Oh."

"I don't know why Song would be giving you trouble now, though. She's been out of Baker Street for months."

"Yes, but… Sherlock would come and visit her."

John failed to hide his surprise. "What, really?"

"Used his key, spoiled her with new toys and extra treats, and went on his way." There was a smile in Mycroft's voice. "I only knew because I have a camera installed for security."

John was silent for a moment as the revelation sunk in. "Well… okay, that, er…"

"Are your cats giving you the same trouble?" Mycroft wanted to know.

John sighed, and rubbed his brow. "Yeah."

"Have you gotten it to stop?"

"Not really… they quieted down some after I… well, after I talked with them about it." John was waiting for the snide comment that would come from the elder Holmes, something about how ludicrous it was to be trying to have an intelligent conversation with house pets.

Instead, there was a thoughtful silence. "I'll have to give that a try. Thank you, Doctor Watson."

* * *

After that call, it was a day later that his phone rang again, with yet another unexpected caller; Molly Hooper. John barely got through pleasantries before she rushed into the topic she wished to address. "I don't know what's happened but they won't leave the door alone."

"Your cats?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Just Orion and Cinder?"

"No, Charlie Cod won't stop either. It's like they're waiting for something and I don't know what's wrong."

John sighed deeply – knowing Charlie Cod was her other cat – already guessing. "Does your door show any signs of a break-in?"

"What? No, why?" Molly asked urgently.

"Calm down, it's okay." John tried to reassure her. "Not anything dangerous. I was just wondering because Mycroft and I are having the same problem."

"Why would that matter?" Her voice asked over the line.

John hesitated before continuing, his voice soft. "Sherlock lived here, and apparently frequented Mycroft's place to visit with that cat."

There was a long pause. "You think Sherlock came to my house just to visit the cats." Her voice was rough with emotion, suddenly.

John felt very bad for her. "There's a chance, yes."

"Well…" Molly sighed. "At least that explains the toys that kept suddenly appearing. And here I was thinking I'd simply forgotten I'd bought them. I do that sometimes, you know."

They were both quiet for a long time, and it was probably the first silence they'd both been a part of that wasn't awkward. Simply reminiscent.

"They miss him, obviously," Molly said finally.

John nodded, forgetting she couldn't see him.

"We all do."

The doctor snorted, blinking back unexpected tears. Why was it still so raw? "I don't think everyone does. A lot of people hated him, you know."

"Yes, but _you_ don't hate him. And the cats don't hate him. And you miss him. You're the only ones who matter." Molly told him with conviction.

John bit the inside of his cheek silently, looking down in a way that would have seemed contemplative. However, his mind was mostly empty. A void of anything other than simple emotion. Emotion that was already exhausted beyond reasonable capacity.

"I'll see what I can do about my cats before the neighbors get upset," Molly said with a slight tone of humor. "I'll talk to you some other time, okay, John?"

"Yeah…" John blinked himself back to reality. "Sure, Molly."

* * *

A/N: Told you, sad.

The cats' reaction of making obnoxious amounts of noises at entryways is a totally legitimate cat thing to do, for those of you who are not aware. It's adorable until it's not.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **LilyAnn9:** Thank you so much for your review! I hope this lives up to your expectation, as your review was a main source of inspiration for this chapter. And the next one. I'll give you credit for both. Thanks!

 **Balloony Toons:** Okay, _that_ was _funny_. I read your review and literally just started giggling illogically and I love it. I'm glad you enjoyed Moriarty. Spoiler alert: I'll have a bonus chapter at the end of all of this that's centered on him. If you want to see more of your "murdering baby", that is. :) Thank you for the review! It's always nice to see a familiar name.

 **jocelyn. :** I'm so glad you're enjoying this! Moriarty was surprisingly difficult to write. I barely had him doing more than what he does in canon, but it was way hard to keep him in character anyway... Khoshekh is very proud of that moment, I assure you. And you're right, as evident from this chapter. Poor cats.


	14. The Final Purr-oblem

A/N: In honor of Easter, April Fools, and by request of my brother, I give you another chapter of this story.

IMPORTANT: I don't think I'll ever continue the point of view in this chapter. I wrote the first part simply as a "what if" idea, and my brother asked for me to write the final scene you'll read in this chapter and post it here. And in the spirit of holidays, I complied.

Some of you have asked for this, and I tried to write it in a way that made it less OOC. In reality, it probably isn't anything like you wanted, but I'm only human. I was going to wait to post this until I was completely finished with this story (I've had it written since I started) but now it can just hold you over until I write the next chapter, yeah?

I'll respond to the reviews of the last chapter when I post the next one that's actually a part of the story. Sorry for the wait.

Enjoy the story!

* * *

Another day done, another criminal lead further down the path of villainy. Not bad for a day's work.

Jim Moriarty whistled a portion of Beethoven's Fifth softly as he sauntered down the street. He often encountered a lot of things while walking through London. A lot of things and a lot of people, though not a single person suspected who he was and how dangerous he could be.

But what he hadn't expected to encounter was a tiny sound. It was dainty. Weak. He followed his ears in the direction they took him, toward a foul-smelling box sagging against the side of one of the many buildings that blanketed the urban London. In big, scrawling letters that stretched like spider's legs across the rotting cardboard, words were written.

MOTHERLESS: PLEASE TAKE ONE

Moriarty peaked into the lid, discovering five tiny kittens inside. Each poor thing still too young to open its eyes. Probably starving and cold. Jim tipped his head as he observed them struggling against the walls of their cage, or huddling against each other, shivering for warmth. It was unfortunate; those creatures could have had the potential to grow into passive-aggressive felines with a high level of intelligence. Annoy many and enslave more. He'd always been of the opinion that cats were evil. His mother had owned one.

But needless suffering was a disadvantage. The tiny infants would cry and cry until they were too dead to do so. It had the potential of distraction. Upsetting who knew what and when. Just because someone encountered a box of kittens on their walk.

It had already distracted him for an amount of time longer than he had anticipated upon following his ears. And nose.

The Consulting Criminal sighed deeply. He would have to put them out of their misery.

But not here. Someone would notice a box of kittens that died of unnatural causes.

Moriarty leaned over and hefted the box before resuming his walk. He would kill them when he got home.

Though maybe they would be useful. Having pets would make him seem more human to those he wished to do business with. A few select people underestimating him wouldn't hurt. And this could be just the way to do it.

He looked down into the box. That was a good plan.

But if he was having pets, they would need names so that he could more easily distinguish and train them. And food. Upon realizing this, Moriarty froze mid-step. He had nothing in his memory about how to care for kittens. Not a slice of data. Not a leaf of information. That was not good. He would need to do some research.

Lots of research.

They were adorable. Not in the same way ordinary people are. More like… in the way small children were. So innocent. So capable of destruction and so blissfully unaware of their eventual death.

One of them, a particularly snobbish animal with dark fur, Jim had named Sherlock. After his new adversary. A genius of his own accord. It was brilliant. The feline liked high places and warm blankets.

The orange one, particularly stupid, Jim had named Watson. After Sherlock's own pet. And, as if inclined simply by nature of the name, Watson would always follow at the heels of Sherlock. It was pretty ridiculous. He wasn't inclined to like that very much.

The grey one, he named Westwood. It was posh, mature in name. And the animal itself was very calm. Collected. Jim appreciated Westwood.

The two brown kittens, one with slightly darker stripes than the other, were named Chocolate and Cookies respectively. These would be the cats he would use for manipulation. They were, by normal standards, cute and cuddly. They seemed to fight each other for entertainment, though, and Jim couldn't really blame them. Life was pretty boring without violence.

The cats did their jobs. Chocolate and Cookies caused many people to underestimate him, and it gave him the upper hand in a lot of situations. It gained him control easily. It was very fortunate. He loved when things worked out exactly as he planned. It showed his power. It showed his ability.

But it never tested it.

And that was no good at all.

He needed a plan. A game. A problem to solve. Or one to give. Maybe it was about time he introduced himself, officially, to the Great Sherlock Holmes.

But there needed to be a grand finale. A final round of the game. A final problem.

But what?

And there they started up again. Jim sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair. As the cats cried and cried from the other room, he reminded himself they were important to his work. They were noisy but important. And sacrifices must be made.

He stood and walked into the place they were in, wanting to see what all the noise was about. On top of one of the cabinets, high on the wall, was Sherlock and Westwood. Both perched on the thin platform. Down on the floor, Watson was mewing and crying and pacing all in agitation. As if berating the two animals for being up there in the first place. Then, rather suddenly, Westwood nudged one of Sherlock's paws right out from under him, causing the cat to lose his balance. And he fell off.

The cat landed on his feet, as they always seemed to, completely unharmed. But an idea came to Jim's mind. A brilliant idea. The end of his game. The final problem.

And it would be glorious.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! Happy Easter! Enjoy your week, and I'll get the next chapter posted as soon as I finish it.

Cashew later!


	15. A-paw-logies to an old Fur-end

A/N: My intention was not to make you wait for my return as long as John waited for Sherlock... that would have been horrendous. My a _paw_ logies for the delay. My job has been insane, and I've had to get stuff ready _fur_ classes later this year and... never mind. It's fine because I'm back now! And with a happy chappie! And it's even better because this is another one inspired by my cat. He likes the attention.

Thank you so much to those of you who have followed/favorited/reviewed my story in my absence. Each and every notification I received regarding this story has urged me to write another word. You always see authors saying that reviews help - and for the longest time I didn't actually believe them - but it does! In some really bizarre way...

Unfortunately, all of my other ideas for this story have wasted away in the time I've been gone. You would think I would remember to write stuff down by now, but _no_.

Reviewer Responses for both chapters 13 and 14 at the bottom!

Enjoy the story!

* * *

Sherlock sat at in his chair, frowning deeply at the carpet.

It had been a couple of days now. Terrorist crisis: averted. Relationship with John: Rocky, but reestablished. The transition back into London life: Rough. Getting back into the swing of things was an odd phrase Sherlock could use as an extended metaphor regarding his attempt to return to his old life after several years away.

For one could potentially swing both ways.

It was difficult, he admitted only to himself, to slip back into the skin of an old identity. Because he wasn't the same Sherlock everyone seemed to remember. Apparently he'd changed. Though he didn't particularly recall changing. It had been gradual enough, he thought, that it had slipped his notice until back in an old atmosphere.

Not that he didn't like it. No, he loved being back. It was _London_. His city. His home.

But… something was missing.

It wasn't John, though. He had John back.

Sort of.

Sherlock continued frowning deeply at the carpet as if simply _imagining_ it would bring it back.

But no, John had the cats.

And Mary was a cat lover.

No wonder they hit it off.

So yes, the great Sherlock Holmes specifically removed an hour from his scheduled experiments and reviewing of cold cases to mope about a pet he'd left behind.

He sighed deeply, sinking deeper into his chair and resembling – he realized upon self-reflection – something like a pouting child. And it was over a childish thing.

Why did it bother him so much? It's not like he cared.

But he did.

 _Shut up_ , he told the thought. If he started _thinking_ he cared, he _would_ care. And then he would be in deep trouble.

Because, after everything else he'd asked of John – the risking of his life on numerous occasions and (more recently) forgiveness – Sherlock was _not_ going to ask for Khoshekh's return to 221B Baker Street.

It was unreasonable. And selfish. And, he thought rather redundantly as if trying to convince himself, childish.

And he was not a child.

He heard the door. Mrs. Hudson was probably leaving. Doing the shopping or something equally boring and/or domestic. Totally and completely _dull_.

There was a bit of silence, but then there were footsteps on the stairs. So… not Mrs. Hudson. The steps were heavier. And slower. But only one other person had the key.

John?

Before Sherlock could deduce anything more, his eye caught a movement in the door. He glanced over, and his breathing caught in his throat.

Running toward him with urgency, and mewing excitedly, was Khoshekh.

Without hesitation, Sherlock slipped out of his armchair and onto the floor, greeting the cat with a large smile and an affectionate scratch by the ear. "I'm sorry." He said to the creature.

It purred loudly. And louder as it brushed against Sherlock's fingers again, wishing for more scratches. The Consulting Detective laughed a little under his breath at the cat's urgency for the contact.

"I brought things for him," John said, mounting the final step with a bit of a grunt. He appeared only moments later, holding in his arms an empty litterbox, and carrying on his shoulder a bag with – Sherlock assumed – cat food and a bag of litter.

Sherlock stared at John briefly, before the Khoshekh rubbed his face again against the detective's hand to draw his attention. "You've brought him to me? Why?"

John sighed deeply. "He's always been happier with you, for some reason."

The taller man frowned, looking at the black cat uncertainly. "He has?"

"Don't even get me started on how he acted when you first left," John said, his voice hinting at a dreadfully tedious tale.

"Then I won't. But why bring him here?" Sherlock reiterated.

John hesitated. "Well… you want Khoshekh here. Don't you?"

Sherlock nodded, petting the creature in front of him. "But Mary likes them."

"The cats? Sure she does, but we'll still have Chips."

"Fish, you mean."

"Oh, don't start that again!" John's eyes held a warning in them that was dangerously close to frustration.

Sherlock laughed, surprised at the sudden urge that came to him. But he was so happy – so unbelievably happy – that Khoshekh was there, in front of him.

He lifted the cat from the ground to hold against him and the dark creature's purrs increased.

"I'm going to go set these down, don't mind me," John mentioned, walking toward the kitchen. "All these heavy things – but don't worry yourself, I'll manage on my own." The sarcasm was lighthearted, and Sherlock was relieved. Though he was uncertain about the amusement he detected in John's voice.

No, the Sherlock that had returned wasn't the same Sherlock that had left two years ago. And neither was John.

"Sherlock… what on _earth_ do you have setting on this table?" John's voice cut through the air with an atmosphere of disgust.

But some things would never change.

* * *

"What _now_?" Sherlock asked it.

Khoshekh refused to look in Sherlock's direction, even as the animal sat only a meter from his feet.

"Are you… arguing with the cat?" John asked from his position in his chair. Sherlock had called him over just an hour ago, wanting help on a new case. It had been a week since Khoshekh's return, and the creature had relaxed nicely into its new-old home. But John hadn't been back around to check in at all. Only a text or two about a new habit the cat might or might not have picked up.

"The _cat_ is being an idiot." Sherlock practically spat the words right onto the feline's head, not even looking at John when he answered.

"You think most living things are idiots, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, this cat is _particularly_ idiotic."

Khoshekh pointedly turned his face farther away from Sherlock's direction.

"Did you _see_?" Sherlock exclaimed in annoyance. " _That_!"

"What?" John asked, amused in spite of himself and the obvious annoyance in the Consulting Detective's voice.

"This creature is acting in an illogical manner!" Sherlock told him. "The day after you returned him to me, he wouldn't look at me. At all."

"Cats don't like direct eye contact, Sherlock," John said with patience.

"Yes, but this is _different_!" Sherlock insisted. "He's ignoring me! And making sure I notice by turning his head away entirely when I look at him. It's… obnoxious! And ridiculous!"

John tried not to laugh. "You think he's _ignoring_ you?"

"There is no other explanation," Sherlock said with certainty. "Khoshekh used to look at me all of the time before. And smile and… things." He waved a hand in the air dismissively. "You know. Typical feline behavior."

John's brows furrowed. "Smile?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said. "The slow blinking. If they make eye contact, blink slowly, and then look away, it's a cat's expression of happiness. Like smiling."

John stared. "Really?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe. I read it on the internet."

John couldn't help it; he laughed.

Sherlock glared. "Shut up."

John tried to control himself. "Honestly, Sherlock, I don't think that's what's happening."

Sherlock's glare lightened into something more like curiosity. "You don't?"

"Once, a couple of months ago, Mary and I went on holiday. Molly watched the cats, in case you were wondering. But when we got back, Khoshekh and Chips—"

"Fish." Sherlock corrected immediately.

" _Whatever_ ," John moved on quickly. "Both of the cats were very happy to see us, and then the next day did exactly that." He pointed at the black-furred feline sitting near Sherlock's feet.

"They ignored you?"

"Well… yes and no." John told him. "They were near us all of the time, making sure to always be in the same room as we were no matter what room that happened to be. But they wouldn't look at us. They were, I think, expressing their anger and frustration at our having left them."

Sherlock frowned at Khoshekh. "You're upset I left you?"

For the first time in several days, Khoshekh turned and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. _Of course, you idiot._

Sherlock smiled.

The cat blinked slowly, and then looked at John before mewing. Loudly.

John chuckled. "I'm sorry I had to spell it out for him."

Sherlock bristled. "You did not have to 'spell it out' for me."

"Yeah, sure, and Khoshekh isn't a cat." John countered to express his disagreement.

Sherlock looked pointedly away from John and didn't respond.

And John couldn't help but be amused by the parallel between his friend's actions and the cat's that sat at his feet.

Sherlock Holmes was an odd man.

* * *

A/N: If you have any prompts you would like to suggest to me, I'm willing to take them! But, as of this very moment, everything I have planned for this story has successfully been done. Just in case this happens to be the final chapter of this story, thank you so much to everyone who has read this story! Whether you followed it from the beginning, or you're just now discovering it, thank you! I hope you're all doomed to live happy lives.

 **Reviewer Response:**

 **Chapter 13:**

 **artemis7448:** I'm glad you think it's cute! I hope this opened the door to many new literary experiences for you.

 **Bkpeake:** Oh my muffins, I hadn't expected to be so emotionally affected by a review... that is sad. But I have noticed that animals tend to take many hints on how to react to things by looking at the humans around them. Much like small children, I guess.

 **Balloony Toons:** Your review made me laugh. Then be honored and sad, and then laugh again. Nice pun. And thank you for such a sweet review. I'm sorry to have made you cry, even a little, but I'm glad you enjoy this story.

 **joycelyn. o. ting:** That was, actually, exactly what I had planned! How did you know? XD John did indeed take the cats with him when he left, so as to not burden Mrs. Hudson with them in his absence. And, because MAry is canonically a cat lover, it was another thing for her to love about our army doctor. Thanks for all of your reviews, and for sharing your theories! I love to see them!

 **Chapter 14:**

 **Balloony Toons:** I'M SUPER HAPPY THAT YOU LIKED IT! Oh my goodness, I wasn't sure how I was going to do, and you said you were looking forward to that chapter, and I had it written, and I was all "eh, why not?" but I wasn't sure if it was, you know... properly demented? Maybe those aren't the words I'm looking for. But I hope that all of your tests went well and that your summer has been wonderful!

 **joycelyn. o. ting:** Don't worry about the timing! I was great! The notification reminded me that I needed to work on this chapter when I finally had a slow enough day. Thank you so much for the positive review!

Catch you later!


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